The Emperor's Decree II: No Surrender
by Redwall Survivor Contestants
Summary: Two vast empires, readying for war. Ten beasts, caught in the middle of it all. Will the Vulpine Imperium prevail, or will the invader have a victory that will change the future of the VI forever? Completed.
1. Prologue: The Battle of Merith's Cove

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week one. 

**Prologue: The Battle of Merith Cove**

_by Admin (Vlad)_**  
**

The normally bustling port town of Merith Cove was even more of a hive of activity than usual. Where usually the docks would be playing host to a few merchants and local fishing vessels, today it seemed like the entire Imperial fleet had dropped anchor. This was, of course, not actually the case. In fact, merely three quarters of the Imperial fleet had dropped anchor.

Admiral Jelliko stood on the quarterdeck of his flagship, the fearsome galleon _Lady Freemont_, watching the commotion in the town. Naval recruiting parties had been busy drumming up new crewbeasts for the fleet all day and the streets were ringing with the sound of drums and cymbals, the blare of bugles rising over it all. Anchored in the cove around him were the other large galleons of the fleet, comprising fifteen massive men of war. The escorting frigates and sloops patrolled the entrance to the cove, while others were actually docked and taking on supplies and recruits. There seemed to be a never ending stream of longboats being rowed back and forth between the galleons and the shore. The whole island of Magh was being mobilised for war.

The fox felt his heart swell with pride as he watched one of the longboats filled with cheering recruits pass by towards the galleon _Malachite's Folly_. The ship had been renamed for the upstart that now threatened the Imperium, in a move which had won the Admiral significant political points, but caused some discontented mutterings from the more experienced sailors to the tune that it was unlucky to rename ships like that. Jelliko dismissed such superstitious nonsense.

As the Admiral smiled and waved his tricorn hat at the recruits, he was interrupted by the Captain of the _Lady Freemont_, a rather dashing wildcat by the name of Louis Jaufrisard. The wealthy young aristocrat had bought his commission years before during peacetime, it was widely assumed that the main reason had been that he thought he looked fetching in the uniform.

"Admiral, sir. The latest dispatches from the Ministry of War have arrived."

The wildcat handed them over with a flourish. The Admiral sliced open the wax seal with a claw and quickly scanned the contents.

_To Admiral Jelliko, from Lord Baltsar, Minister of War, greetings!_

_I trust this message finds you in good health, and well prepared for the trials that are to come. The Emperor has let it be known that He places all faith in His Admiral of the Fleet to utterly destroy His enemies and to drive them from the seas._

_Further intelligence has been handed to me by the office of the Minister of Misanthropy, Lady Akilina, that confirms reports that the enemy fleet left Resolution some days ago and is making sail for Magh via Voil Village, with the intention of wresting the island from Imperial control. This is our opportunity to deal a crushing blow, to destroy their rabble at sea before they can make further mischief._

_The fleet is thereby ordered to seek out and engage the enemy at the earliest possible opportunity._

_I, and all the Imperium wish you luck, and may the blessings of His Grace the Emperor tumble down upon you like a golden fog._

_Signed, this day of Primary 8th, 1793_

Jelliko looked up to find Captain Jaufrisard staring at him expectantly. The Admiral gave a jovial laugh and brandished the papers triumphantly.

"Well Captain, this is it! We have them now, with the force we have assembled here the scum won't know what hit them."

"Good show, sir!" Captain Jaufrisard grinned. "The crew can't wait to get at... I say, what do you suppose is that?"

Admiral Jelliko followed the direction of the wildcat's outstretched paw. One of the frigates on the outskirts of the cove was running up a flag signal. As the flags reached the top of the mast, the faint sounds of a ship's bell could be heard over the noise of the fleet. The fox snatched his spyglass from his belt, snapped it open and scanned the signal.

_Enemy Squadron Sighted._

The fire that had been welling up inside Jelliko suddenly turned to ice. The enemy were here already. With the Imperial fleet at anchor in the cove, the situation could be disastrous. Captain Jaufrisard hesitated, seeing the ashen expression on the Admiral's face.

"Admiral, sir? Do you have any orders?"

Jelliko slowly lowered his spyglass. "Captain, beat to quarters. I want the fleet at sea within the hour." The Admiral's expression became one of grim determination. "Well, jump to it, Captain! The Emperor expects us all to do our duty, and so we shall. Battle stations, at once!"

"At once Admiral!" Jaufrisard flashed one of his most dashing salutes, and darted across the quarterdeck. "I say, you beasts!" He called to the collection of crewbeasts busy on deck, "Whichever one of you is the drummer, sound beat to quarters this instant!"

Instantly the deck erupted as beasts rushed to clear the deck for combat. The drum roll drifted across the fleet, quickly picked up by the other ships. Some were already unfurling their sails in preparation to head out into open waters. The longboats rushed back to their galleons, whatever was left on the dockside was going to have to be left behind. As the lumbering warships began to move, the citizens of Merith Cove began to pour out of their houses, drawn by the sudden commotion. As the wind filled the _Lady Freemont_'s sails, the town's bells were starting to ring the alarm.

The fleet straggled out of the cove with little chance to make any meaningful formation. Already the sails of the enemy ships were close. Even with the hurried departure, there was still going to be limited room for maneuver between the enemy fleet and the coastline of Magh.

Admiral Jelliko scanned the enemy fleet with his spyglass. It was strange, but there didn't seem to be as many of them as he had been informed. Perhaps a storm had blown up during their voyage? "The fleet will move in to close range with the enemy and engage them face to face," he ordered, his Aide taking notes to prepare the necessary signals. "We will see how their rabble deal with true Imperial steel."

The tension aboard the ship mounted as the fleets drew closer. The ballistas were run out and ready to launch their deadly missiles. A hush fell over the fleet, with only the sounds of water lapping against creaking wood to be heard. One of the crewbeasts broke the sombre silence, striking up an old naval shanty. Gradually, more of the crew joined in, causing a glare from Jaufrisard before Jelliko stopped him from intervening.

They were close now, almost in range. Suddenly a call came down from the crow's nest. One of the Lieutenants took the report, then hurried up to the quarterdeck to Captain Jaufrisard.

"Captain, lookout reports that the first wave of enemy ships appear only lightly crewed. Several others are holding back from the engagement."

Jaufrisard laughed loudly. "HA! They're so scared by the sight of us that they've run away and cowered below decks! Victory is ours! Three cheers for His Grace lads, huzzah! Huzz..."

The second cheer was cut off midway through as the first of the enemy ships burst into flames.

It was quickly followed by the rest of the enemy ships, each on a collision course with the lumbering Imperial galleons. The _Malachite's Folly_ had been one of the first ships out of the cove, and it was struck square on the starboard side, flames leaping across the gap and igniting the sails and rigging before spreading rapidly down to the deck. Several other ships were also hit, some by the enemy fireships and others by friendly vessels just trying to get out of the way.

Soon the air was thick with smoke, and the water starting to fill with burning chunks of broken wood and longboats filled to overflowing with confused and panicked sailors doing their best to avoid being mown down by drifting hulks. Admiral Jelliko surveyed the chaos grimly. The second wave of enemy ships was starting to move closer to the scattered and shocked Imperial fleet. There was little that could be salvaged from the situation. At least four of the Imperial galleons were on fire and drifting, having been abandoned by their crews, several others had already struck their colours. With the arrival of the main enemy force the rest of the broken fleet would quickly follow.

Suddenly, with a loud squawk, an exhausted looking Missertross Poste gull crashed down onto the quarterdeck, its flying goggles pulled down tightly over its eyes and several arrows embedded in its leather pouch. Jelliko quickly opened the pouch and removed the hurriedly scrawled message.

_Admiral,_

_We are undone. Enemy ships have been sighted rounding Kenny's Bunk Pointe. If this message finds you, the enemy's main invasion force is concentrated against Vulpininsula, not Magh. Already there are reports of scouting parties coming ashore. The Imperial army is withdrawing to establish defences at Amarone, and the Imperial Ministers are evacuating with them. Defence of the city has been left to the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard._

_You must return with all haste to relieve us. The enemy are many._

_Baltsar_

Jelliko hung his head. Outmaneuvered twice. Somebeast must know more about this than they were letting on. Looking across the scattered fleet to see which ships were still fighting. One of the newer frigates, the _Stormchaser_ was the closest, one of the only ships nearby that hadn't struck its colours.

The Admiral beckoned his Aide. "Signal _Stormchaser_, order them to make full sail for Bully Harbour at once to aid in the defence of the city and to secure the Imperial Palace. The rest of the fleet will break off from the engagement and regroup at the island of Urk."

The Aide hurried away and soon the orders were flying from the masthead. _Stormchaser_ signaled 'Acknowledged', and broke away from the battle, putting on as much sail as she could to evade the oncoming enemy ships.

"Do you think she'll make it sir?" Captain Jaufrisard asked, his once pristine uniform stained with soot and blood. "Will we?"

"_Stormchaser_ is one of the fastest ships in the fleet, Captain," Jelliko assured him. "She will make it. She has to, or all is lost."

The Admiral dug his claws into the guardrail as the fleet scattered away from Magh, and the island began to fall away in the distance. Soon all that could be seen was the rising column of smoke.


	2. The Spy Who Came In From the Cold

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 1. The Spy Who Came In From the Cold  
**

_by Sal Lightfoot_**  
**

The air was filled with the reek of damp fur and wet wood. Anybeast who braved exposure to the chill winds of Primary was layered with every article of clothing that they owned, and perhaps a few they didn't. It was not a night to be out in if you had a choice.

Sal didn't have a choice. She was hungry.

The drab-furred rat shivered, tucking her tail closer beneath the skirts of her tattered coat as she passed along one last load of brackish water. Tonight, her bucket had performed a "public service" –or so the Mayor's office called it.  
It was grueling, tedious work, trying not to slosh icy harbour-water onto one's own footpaws, with shuttered mansions and wintering topiaries casting eerie shadows in the flickering torchlight.  
There was an army approaching, the whispers went. Then, they weren't only whisper,s but messages, and then the messages became long lines of carts headed out of town as the rich and famous fled to their country estates ahead of the impending invasion.

Sal couldn't leave, of course. Even if she had wanted to, the Stoatorian Guard wasn't letting any more able-bodied citizens flee until defenses were set up. And so she found herself queuing up with other exhausted beasts to receive her promised reward for her (enforced) good citizenship.  
Everything was only made worse by the bite of the icy wind, but the Mayor's office had decided to ensure cooperation by advertising that "Hotte Foodstuffes" would be provided for volunteers. Beasts from the Slups had shown up in droves, drawn by the promise of free food in return for helping guarantee the survival of the homes of the richest denizens of the Imperium.

"I s'pose it was hot when they made it, maybe," Sal said dubiously as she eyed the meager helping of porridge they'd just been served. But after nearly six hours of back-breaking labor, she was in no position to argue. Not if she wanted to make her appointment on time. Sal sniffed at the contents of the chipped mug in her paws, and her whiskers twitched slightly.

"Oh well, bottoms up, all o' ya!"

The congealing barley-husk porridge was consumed in one prolonged swallow, leaving the plump rat craving more as she grudgingly passed the mug back. She wiped her mouth with the back of her paw, and then wiped her paw on her apron before turning away regretfully, her stomach growling in protest.

"Now, where in th' name o' Mar'kan's pet petunia did I put my bucket?"

Sal eyed the small pile of empty buckets near the porridge station. A few minutes later, she was walking east, shivering and wincing as the wind made her new (old) bucket swing awkwardly on her arm.

"It's not as iffen I'm stealin'," she muttered to herself to assuage the prick of her conscience, "I did too bring a bucket, an' all buckets look alike!"

--- --- ---

A band of Fogeys ran past, rolling a cart loaded with cloth-draped mysteries in the direction of the harbour as Sal trudged doggedly on, her appointment weighing on her mind as her belly growled for sustenance.

The charbeast approached the Market Place, breathing a sigh of relief as she saw it still bustling even with the decrease in the city's population. She felt much more comfortable in a crowd, even if it did entail being hassled to buy a badly-carved weasel every few seconds.

Sal started browsing the wares of an elderly and nearly-deaf vixen, knowing from experience that so long as she kept her paws to herself and smiled and nodded occasionally the old herbalist would leave her alone. She eyed the scraggly crowd of late-night bargain-hunters, noting that most of them seemed to be interested in purchasing various nasty-looking weapons.

"Last time 'e said I was t' meet 'im by th' fish-kebabs," Sal reminded herself. She tried to avoid drooling into the vixen's various love-potions but the tantalizing aromas wafting from the next stall were too tempting. In spite of her best intentions, she found herself staring in fascination as the tattooed vendor spitted chunks of shark onto a sword blade, interspersed with onion quarters and tater chunks, and then stuck the blade into a beam positioned over glowing coals.

Sal swallowed, gritted her teeth, and waited. Her stomach growled.

--- --- ---

"But dearie, don't you want to try even one of these potions? It sounds like I mixed them just for you!"

Sal winced at the vixen's too-loud spiel. Sometime in the first hour she'd been waiting for her stoat contact, she'd made the mistake of mentioning to the herbalist how lonely she was.

"Of course, that'd be th' only bit th' ol' fright heard," the rat grumbled, mostly to herself, as she looked around the market once again. She noticed that the fish-kebabs were almost sold out, but there was no sign of the rather dashing figure she was supposed to meet. Sal swayed slightly, her chilled paws and chattering teeth reminding her that she had been standing, waiting, in the cold for almost

"It's not like 'im to be late," Sal thought, not for the first time. The worry she felt must have shown on her homely features, for the vixen attacked her subject once again.

"Dearie, you're getting too old to be alone. Listen to an old granny: the sooner you settle down and have some darling little ratlings, the better! You could catch your dream rat, with just a little help from me."

Maybe it was the mention of ratlings. Something within Sal gave way and without even a "G'bye" to the vixen she turned and shuffled away, blinking back tears that were only tangentially due to the stinging wind. Out to the west, a few flashes of lightning split the night sky, revealing massive clouds skidding by. The ominous rumbling of thunder announced that yet another winter storm was blowing past Vulpinsula, on its way to lands unknown.

"Mayhap 'e was 'eld up," Sal thought as she stared, half-seeing, at the bolts illuminating the edge of the ocean. "Mayhap 'e had t' get more papers. It's jes' not like 'im at all!"

--- --- ---

The Ruston manse loomed imposingly from its prime real estate at the eastern edge of Zann's Backyard. Sal eyed it from the end of the street, weighing her options. The well-muffled rat hopped from footpaw to footpaw, wriggled her whiskers, and stepped off the curb.  
It was not a good idea to be there, not at all, but the situation was so worrisome that she felt compelled to seek out her contact directly.

The charbeast detoured from the massive front doors, instead heading for the servants' entrance on the side of the house. A soft tapping of her nails and Sal found herself being eyed by a neatly-frocked stoatmaid through the cracked door.

"S'me, Flo!" the rat greeted her neighbor from the Slups.

"Sal, now's not th' best time t' gossip," Flo said with a wary look back over her shoulder even as she opened the door a bit wider. "Th' mistress is on th' warpath an' it's all I can do t' keep out o' her way."

"But Flo," Sal protested, shivering exaggeratedly, "it's blinkin' cold out 'ere. 'Aven't ya any 'eart?"

With another glance over her shoulder, the lissome stoat cook opened the door wide enough for her friend to slip into the warm kitchen. Pots and pans were strewn haphazardly and half a dozen knives were stuck, blade-first, into the wall by the doorway to the breakfast room. Sal eyed the knives askance as she followed Flo over to a side counter.

"'Ow's yer mum?" the rat said convivially, trying not to eye the dainty sandwiches heaped on a platter as her friend continued her deft preparations of a tray for morning tea.

"Oh, she's fine, Sal. It's not her as I'm worried about," Flo replied, but then jumped as a commanding male voice resounded through the house.

"Pinaflour? What are you about? Pinaflour?!"

"Stay here!" the stoat whispered to Sal as she grabbed the silver tea-tray and rushed out the door.

Sal listened as Flo's steps trailed off in the distance. She smiled as she saw her friend had left a sandwich on the counter for her, but froze at the sound of approaching beasts. Rather than make a dash across the whole length of the kitchen to the outside door, the plump rat skittered backwards. Now, if the door were to open she would be (mostly) concealed behind it. Sal held her breath as the click-clack of boots came to a halt just outside the kitchen.

"I can't believe yer ineptitude, Mark!"

The harshness of the female's voice made Sal clutch her tail more tightly to herself.

"I gave ye the perfect setting, a bleeding kit, and ye weren't able t'even get a _name_? Ye killed my Pylaris and I don't have a single lead! Curse ye t'the depths, ye gormless sharkbait!" she continued.

He was dead, then. Dead. Killed. On the orders of his own mother.

Dead.

"But I...! He...! He weren't talkin' none, ma'am, an' I jist didn' realize till he were-" the male sputtered, panic starting to fill his deep tones.

They had tortured him. And he had kept her secret. Just as he'd promised.

"Oh, shut up! There's absolutely no excuse for this, Mark. Have ye any idea how much trouble that lad's caused me? The _embarrassment_? And now he's dead and _I_ didn't get the pleasure myself."

The tears dripped off Sal's whiskers onto her sleeves, painting a pattern of misery upon the patchwork.

"Might have _other_ creatures t'take my _pleasure_ on, though," the female said, the menace palpable in her tone.

With a shiver, Sal started to creep towards the door to the garden. It was far too dangerous to stay any longer. She had heard enough.

"Sir, I-"

Whatever the male was about to say was cut off as another beast approached the kitchen.

"Oh, excuse me ma'am, excuse me sir!" Flo gasped. "I didn't mean t' intrude…"

"Ye intrude plenty, and most often when my husband is home alone, I gather, _Pin_aflour," the female snapped.

Sal cringed for her friend, but knew there was nothing she could do to help. As Flo started to protest, weeping, Sal took advantage of the growing racket to slip out into the fresh, cold air. Shutting the door gently behind her, the rat took off just as fast as she could walk without actually appearing as if she were running away from something.

"'E's gone," Sal repeated to herself, the notion too painful to contemplate yet too strange to accept without reflection. "'E's really gone."


	3. Perfect Storm

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 2. Perfect Storm  
**

_by Wazzock_**  
**

_I like a proper storm. One with winds that clear out the snout and leave the taste of salt on the tongue for days afterwards. Adds flavor to whatever is served in the mess hall. It would be nice if one could put a storm on and off so it would be stormy at just the right times. Of course, some beasts don't think there's ever a good time for a storm, but are just crabbyguts._

"Captain!"

Wazzock's ears perked and he turned to a dappled gray rat scampering towards him. He placed the mop in the bucket, or rather, placed it where the bucket used to be. He looked across the deck, now shrouded with a wave of foam and chaos, mentally taking note he should have placed more rocks in the bottom to keep it from being carried off by the storm.

"Captain Zock! We need you at the bridge!" the rat called.

"Ah, our esteemed bosun. So, Kriley, are we still on course?"

"I don't know, you see…"

Wazzock let himself give a chiding smile. "We are needed in Bully Harbor, and to get there as quickly as possible we must keep a solid course through the storm and so…"

"Harper went overboard."

In the lightning, icicles sparkled off Kriley's whiskers and the slick deck. Thunder, along with the frothing waves, tumbled over the wind and crackling of sleet. Wazzock gazed out at the ocean's mountainous terrain, wondering what gorge Harper might lost down. "Our navigator, eh? No need to worry. Let's just get to the bridge and get this little situation under paw and we'll be fine." Wazzock slapped Kriley on the back and lifted the door down to the hold. He beckoned the rat to follow him down the ladder.

"That's not the way to the bridge, captain."

"Of course not. Need to get something to warm the muzzles before I began calling orders, you know. I'm certain whomever is on the wheel will keep it steady," Wazzock said, as another wave bashed across the ship's starboard, causing the wood to creak and shutter. Kriley shrugged and quickly followed the rat down, shutting the door, but not before an icy cascade of water doused him.

Mop over his shoulder, Captain Wazzock stepped with a certain skip over the threshold of the mess hall, into the kitchen, where he was met by steam and strange remnants of what could be called food stuffs scattered on the counters. In the midst of it all, a monitor loomed over a stove. It glared at Wazzock and Kriley as they entered.

"Soriss! Matey! We need a few dashes of what you got, to be taken on the go, please."  
The scaly mug brightened when he recognized Wazzock. "Right away, ssir!" Soriss ducked under the counter and scrabbled around until his claws came in contact with the soft texture of biscuits. He produced two of them, dusting them off, then dipped a brush in a bowl of vegetable oil and painted them. "Any herbsss, ssir?"

Wazzock rubbed his whiskers free of ice. "That sounds fun. Eh, Krill? And some good spice if you got it."

Kriley finished wiping the condensation from his glasses with his scarf. "I don't think …" he began. The clattering of various pots and pans from the unusual angle of the ship interrupted him.

"One can't have a proper adventure without something scamperin' down the gullet to warm the guts." Wazzock put in.

Soriss set the biscuits on a warming stone before catching a pinch of tarragon between two claws. His eyes continually darted from Wazzock's face to Krill's and back again as he sprinkled the herb on and pushed the stone into the oven for a moment. "Ssorry, ssir, it'll be jusst a minute."

Wazzock cheerfully watched the proceedings. He always found it interesting to see a master at work, swooping into task with a dynamic flair, the ebb and flow of inspiration at their claws. Kriley's claws rapped a jittery tattoo on the hilt of his saber, his eyes flashing periodically to the icy water dribbling through many cracks in the ceiling.

Soriss finally tore his eyes away from the intruders to his kitchen long enough to watch the edges of the biscuits brown. He withdrew the warming stone, opened his nostrils, and breathed deeply. Perfect. He swiveled so that the warming stone was in front of the officers and put on a winning smile. "Do enjoy, ssirsss."

"Shall do, Soriss. See you when at dinner." Wazzock tipped his hat, picked up the biscuits and pawed one over to Kriley, who sniffed at it distractedly. "Now, let's get to this little problem. Pity about Harper. Nice ferret, I believe. Nice sense of direction, hence his navigator position. Wazzock stuffed the biscuit into his cheek as they made it to the ladder. Slightly muffled, he continued, "Always wondered why ferrets have those odd masks about their eyes, haven't you, Krill?" He threw open the door into the storm, the vicious jaws of hail had begun falling . Wazzock lowered his hat to protect his eyes. He made his way across the deck, up another layer, to the helm, where he found his fox steerbeast strapped upon the wheel.

"Good morning, Ripper, what is the status? Oh, and where is the first mate, I'd like to see what he thinks of this issue."

"W-w-w-we d-d-d-d-on't know where we are!" the fox chattered.

"Ah, well, we can see what we can do about that. The Imperium is depending on us, you see. I don't believe we ought to let them down. Duty and all that. Is the compass workin'?"

"H-h-h-harper 'ad it."

"Ah, pity. Did his say anything about directions before he went?"

"H-h-h-h-e said s-s-s-s-something like aaaaaaaaaargh, sir."

"You need something to warm you, matey. Krill, I see you haven't even nibbled your biscuit. Allow me to give it to the frosted chap. There you go. And let me take a look through my spyglass." He squinted through the spyglass, its view obscured by water and frost on the lens. However, he did see something solid through the icy gloom. He lowered the glass. He wondered about the proper nautical terms he should use. He didn't even quite know what starboard was and the poop deck just made him snigger. He had some sense of riggings and the mainstaff ("the big tree thing in the middle"). If he were going to be yelling orders, he ought to do them right.

"What is the nautical term for iceberg, Krill."

"I don't believe there is one, captain."

"You're certain?"

Krill nodded stiffly, claws deep into the rail, teeth now chattering notably. Wazzock shook his head. Krill should have eaten the biscuit. Case in point: the steerbeast's teeth were no longer chattering with the biscuit between them.

"Ah. Well, I think we ought to yank the wheel to the right then because there we're coming in on a rogue iceberg over that ways," Captain Wazzock said pointing out at massive white crag coming out of the hail-ridden gloom, its peak rising from under a falling wave. "Batten down the hatches!" he added for good measure.


	4. With Friends Like These

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 3. With Friends Like These  
**

_by Seth Devonshire_**  
**

Seth spat out yet another weevil and watched it squirm away into the woodwork. "Extra protein," the cook had termed the little devils. Two weeks on this bloody ship and not a decent meal the entire time. He poked at the wobbly mush in his bowl. It moved.

_'Dearest Sadie,_

The food here is exquisite and the company beyond compare. I never would have guessed that the General's soldiers were so cultured.'

The marten leaned back in his bunk and glared at his surroundings. Rough bunks lined the walls, some occupied with sleeping soldiers, others with beasts scribbling a few lines on damp paper; to be sent to loved ones back home. The whole place reeked of stale sweat, unwashed uniforms and dirty pawsocks.

Seth sneered to himself, revolting, that was what it was. _Dashing soldiers, romantically going off to war to fight the dreaded enemy? Bah! Beasts of all classes thrown into filth and squalor and expected to salute anybeast with stripes on their uniform, more like._

Easing himself off his bunk, Seth trudged along the aisle to the water barrel by the stairs that led topside. He peered down at his wavering reflection in the stale water and prodded at the bruised, swollen skin around his left eye. Behind him, somebeast snickered.

"Pretty, ain't it? I can give you another if you like. That way your right eye can match."

Seth straightened and turned on his heel to face the creature behind him. It was a rat, with ears that could have been used as colanders if anybeast had taken the time to remove them from his head - and clean them, naturally. His snaggle-toothed smile radiated pure malice as he eyed Seth.

"I don't believe I remember addressing you, Runtclaw-" Seth sniffed, buffing his claws against his chest. "In fact, I distinctly remember _not_ addressing you."

The rat winked at one of the soldiers, who had started to take an interest. "Cor, but I think our little prince has gone and forgotten my name again! Looks like I'll have to remind him."

The surrounding beasts guffawed appreciatively, and Seth felt the ship lurch. The nausea he'd been fighting for the past week made his stomach churn, and he moaned; seasickness was supposed to happen to _other_ beasts.

"Oh, go away rat," Seth mumbled. "I don't like you."

_'I'm getting along well with everybeast, and it's been rumored that we'll be marching with your brother's regiment when we lay siege to Bully Harbour.'_

More soldiers were clustering around to get a clear view of the argument. One of them, a stoat, stole a glance at Seth, before filching the bowl of mush the marten had left in his bunk and began eating out of it with his bare paws.

Seth grimaced in distaste. "That's disgusting."

The stoat grinned at him and licked grease off his paw. "Just as you say, mate."

Seth turned his thoughts back to his letter, frowning slightly.

"Here, I wasn't finished talking to you!" The rat was speaking again.

Seth dragged his gaze back to the rodent. "Well, I'm finished talking to you, Runtclaw," he stated firmly.

The rat stood up, and Seth winced; the beast's shoulders ended almost above his head.

"The name's Rotclaw," the rat snarled, all traces of a smile vanishing from his face, "and I don't like your attitude, you slimy little prissy-paws!"

"Then go away, you overbearing tub of lard!"

Seth pushed himself away from the water barrel and stood up as straight as he could. Rotclaw's head was still a good two ear-lengths higher than his own.

"I heard that the General had you lashed for assaulting an officer. I could see to it that you're executed for assaulting a lord of the realm."

"Oh, it wouldn't be for assaulting," growled Rotclaw. "But it might be for murder."

The onlookers roared with laughter. As Seth watched, a weasel with patchy fur hauled off his helmet and held it out.

"Bets on Rotclaw against the prince!"

Seth saw the fist coming. He knew it was coming - he'd been used as the regimental punching bag ever since his father had handed him over to Sergeant Grimmjaw. But for some reason, he could never duck fast enough. The next thing he knew, cheering soldiers were in a tight circle around him as he rolled around in a kicking, biting mass with Rotclaw.

Seth could think of things he'd rather do. Some of them even involved similar postures. None of them involved Rotclaw.

"Not the face… not the face!" The marten howled as Rotclaw's greenish teeth sank into one of his ears and dirty claws gouged his cheek. He elbowed the rat's iron stomach in an attempt to make the beast let go.

"What's all this, then?"

The shout was lost amongst the yelling of the other soldiers, but the intruder didn't give up so easily: Seth turned his head to bite Rotclaw's shoulder, and instead got a mouthful of brackish seawater. Sputtering, he jerked out of the rat's grasp and rolled away, only to come to a stop against a pair of shiny black boots. Still blinking salt water out of his burning eyes, Seth let his gaze travel up the boots to a pair of crisply ironed trousers, a starched tunic with officer's stripes, two paws holding an empty bucket, and finally the glowering face of Captain Redmond.

The Captain handed the bucket to Sergeant Grimmjaw, standing behind him, and then crossed his arms. "Private Devonshire, Private Rotclaw, attention!"

Rotclaw was standing and at attention in an instant. Seth eased himself onto his footpaws and stood slowly. Shame and humiliation were dancing a jig in the forefront of his brain and laughing at him.

"Private Rotclaw, report!"

"We fell down the stairs, sir!" The rat gestured to the stairs.

Seth dropped all pretense of respect and spat blood on the floor. "That is false information!" he hissed. "This rat maliciously attacked me with no provocation on my part whatsoever!"

"Shut up, Devonshire."

_'The beasts in my regiment are diverse. Our captain, Redmond, is a rat of impeccable breeding. He ensures that everyone is treated fairly and with honor.'_

"_Lord_ Devonshire," Seth corrected him. "In class structure, I am your equal, if not above you, Captain."

The muscles in Redmond's cheek twitched as he looked back and forth between Seth and Rotclaw. Then he grinned.

"Right; then, you fell down the stairs. It seems to me, Devonshire, that you're very good at falling down things."

"What do you want?" Seth muttered and rubbed at the back of his head. By the Emperor, was there any part of his head that Rotclaw hadn't hit?

"What was that?"

"I said," Seth enunciated loudly, "why don't you go away? I dislike you, my head is killing me, and I'd like to have a lie-down before someone attacks me again."

For a moment, the entire room fell silent. Then a small grin flashed across Redmond's face.

"Very well, Private Devonshire. I shall indeed go away." Redmond paused. "I'm transferring you to Captain Steep's regiment. I hear that she's very good dealing at with... difficult cases. Not only that, but she's also the daughter of the late Southern Ambassador and the Emperor's niece. Therefore, I believe, above even you in rank."

Seth's eyes widened. "I'm not taking orders from a female!" Behind him, he could hear Rotclaw sniggering.

The captain shrugged. "Well, you don't take orders from me either, so I don't see what the problem is." He motioned to Grimmjaw. "Go arrange the papers. I want them on Steep's desk in five minutes. Devonshire, get your gear, I'm taking you to her now."

And that was that. Here he was, Lord Seth Devonshire, son of two of the wealthiest beasts in the Empire, discarded like bad cider. With his head held high, he strode to his bunk and dragged from under it the few possessions he'd been allowed to keep. Angrily, he shoved them into a bag.

"Let's go, Private, I haven't got all day!"

Seth muttered a curse and then returned to the Captain. Shame and humiliation had stopped dancing and were now making rude gestures at him.

Redmond nodded once and then led the way up the stairs. Accompanied by the sounds of laughter from the other soldiers, Seth followed. A moment later, they were standing on deck and Redmond was knocking on the door that led to Steep's office.

"I've got a new recruit for you, Steep!" he yelled. "I think you'll like him. He might even be pretty once his face heals!"

"Go away!" came the annoyed but-too-exhausted-to-really-mean-it grunt from inside the office.

Redmond smiled at Seth and pushed the door open, holding his arms out as if he were a butler ushering him in. "I think you two will get on splendidly," he said.

_'I miss you Sadie, and I promise I shall return._

With affection,

Seth Devonshire Esq.'

It wasn't until the door had firmly shut behind him that the female weasel behind the desk lifted her head off of her arms and glared at him.

"So, Private Devonshire... another useless tramp of a soldier transferred to my command? What did _you_ do, bite Grimmjaw?"

Seth let himself flop lazily into a chair in front of her desk without bothering to salute.

"Don't be silly, darling," he said. "I only bite females. You have gorgeous eyes, by the way. Although you might be interested in knowing that your head's bleeding."

Seth crossed his legs and leaned back. It had been far too long since he'd seen a female. Certainly there were female soldiers but they hardly counted. If anything they were more tattooed and pierced than the males. At least this one looked like a girl. Bit old for him perhaps, but if she really was the emperor's niece then his parents would approve.

He looked back up at her face. She was standing now, toying with something under her left paw.

"I'm not at all. Now, tell me... What makes you think you can flirt with me, Private Devonshire?" she said coldly.

Seth smirked. "Call me Seth, darling, really. We're practically equals."

An innocent smile spread across Steep's features and then her paw came up and the next thing Seth knew, an inkwell had been launched at his head.

"Ye Fates!" When he saw the missile coming, he tried to dodge. However, leaned back as he was, he ended up flat on his back with his feet up in the air "What's wrong with you beasts!" he yelled and tried to wipe spilt ink off his uniform. The result was disastrous.

He tried to scramble to his feet as he heard the weasel start stomping her way around the desk. But he'd hardly made it to his knees when she reached him. The marten doubled over, gasping, as her left boot made solid contact with his stomach.

"Bite females, eh? Do I look like a woodpigeon to you, Devonshire? Do I _look_ like a bloody _woodpigeon_ to you, Devonshire? Do _I_. Look _like_. A _bloody woodpigeon_ - answer me, you pa_thetic_ excuse for a soldier - to _you, Private Devonshire?_"

Each one of her comments was accompanied by a vicious kick as Seth rolled on the ground, trying to avoid tangling his legs up in the chair while evading her torrent of blows.

"Would you stop kicking me!" He reached out and grabbed at one of her knees. As sheer luck would have it, her legs buckled and she hit the ground hard. Seth lost no time in rolling on top of her and pinning her arms to the ground.

"I said stop!" he snarled.

The captain stopped and for a moment their eyes met. Seth grinned, and then reeled back as the weasel head-butted him so hard he saw stars.

He rolled off of her and stood up slowly, trying to see through watering eyes what the next attack would be.

"Get up. Sit down. At ease."

Seth blinked. The captain had gotten to her footpaws and was now leaning back against the desk, one paw pressed to the raw patch between her eyes. Seth backed away a little more and his own paws rose to his face to make sure he still had all the correct bits attached. He couldn't remember a time when he'd hurt like this before.

"Didn't you know?" he muttered, "I am at ease. I couldn't possibly be more at ease if you'd cut my paws off and made me eat them."

Beaten by a female! His face burned with more than pain. Who were these army creatures? Soldiering was supposed to involve fighting foreigners. Granted, compared to him, these beasts practically were.

"Don't tempt me," the captain snapped. "Smoke?"

Seth looked up and stared. "I beg your pardon?"

Priscilla had opened a box on her desk and taken out two cigars. She proffered one to him.

"Smoke?" she repeated. "Do you? Looks like you could use it."

Hesitantly, Seth reached out and took the cigar. She tossed him a roll of matches and he lit it. His eyes widened. The cigar was good.

For a moment there was silence and then the captain righted Seth's chair, made her way around the desk and plopped down in hers.

"So I heard one of Grimmjaw's lads had a jar stuck on his paw. What was up with that?" she said, motioning him to sit.

Seth moved forward warily. "Some fox named Tippen tried to steal a jar of candied chestnuts from a stoat called Rafe. Apparently it was a gift from Rafe's mother, so when he found out that Tippen had stolen them he glued the jar onto the fox's paw while he slept. Are you going to hit me again?"

Priscilla dug around in a lower drawer of her desk for a moment, and surfaced holding a pink box with lace trimmings.

"Hmm? Not yet. Don't be silly," she grinned. "We're fighting a war here. Supposed to be killing the enemy, not each other. Something you soldiers need to figure out before you sink the whole ship. Holed doughroll?"

She pulled the lid off the box and held it out to him. Seth glanced at the sugar-covered pastries and shook his head.

"No... no thank you."

There was a note attached to the box's lid. Seth read it as Pricilla shrugged and threw the box down on her desk.

"To my future flower," the note read.

"I got sent a whole box of these... I hate them."

The weasel paused again and silence filled the room. Then she sighed.

"Right then, Private, go away and leave me alone. You'll bunk with my regiment, I daresay you know where they are. We've been on this ship bloody long enough. And get cleaned up, you've got ink all over your uniform."

Seth was still for a moment, debating. Back home he'd been a decent duelist. That is, he'd killed a few and had gotten away without being killed, but here things were different. There were no rules of chivalry or code of honor and nobility. Rank was something that he talked about and everyone else ignored. At home, it would have been absurd for him to take orders from a female. Now he had a feeling that if he ignored her she might try to kill him.

He winced, and his face protested. That settled it. He was finished being hit for the day. The marten stood up and bowed slightly. "Captain," he said.

After all. This was only temporary.

She waved him away. "Saluting is what we do here, Devonshire."

Seth shrugged and threw a casual salute.

"Terrible," Priscilla said and then motioned. "Now go away."

And he went.


	5. Rain Delay

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 4. Rain Delay  
**

_by Lock_**  
**

Lock was not enjoying himself. The sea travel had played havoc with his stomach to begin with, and this unwanted storm only amplified the nauseating, rocking motions. Although the lack of windows in his cabin ensured that he didn't have to look at the never-ending waves of torment accosting this infernal tub, the obnoxious roar of wind and rain permeated the wooden walls, providing just enough aural imagery to continue the upset of the General's gut. More annoying still was that laying on his cot left him nothing to ponder but the up-and-down sensation, and closing his eyes made him feel dizzy. Deprived of sleep as an escape, it was a bitterly irritated General Lock that sat slumped in his arm chair, glaring at the Imperium map on his table, hoping that thoughts of war would provide a pleasant remedy to the evils of nature.

A draft of wind weaved its way into the cabin, wrapping itself around the General's neck. Letting the shiver to run the full length of his spine, Lock pulled his overcoat tighter around his body. That he had allowed himself to be convinced that this campaign should take place in the winter brought a scowl to his face. "Make haste," the other Generals had said, "or it is us who shall be attacked! Better to strike now when they're not expecting it." The cold, bad weather and all the logistical hitches that went along with it would befuddle the Imperium as much as it would hinder the South, except that the South had the element of surprise.

"Don't worry, old boy," the General-in-Chief of the Imperial Southern Army had assured Lock, "I've no doubt we'll thrash those paupers and be home in time for spring thaw. Why, I've put together some of our finest troops and officers into the mix. Everything is laid out now, just waiting for you to take the reins and deliver a victory for the Emperor. Holed doughroll?" His misgivings placated by his superior's assurances, Lock finally agreed to not only back the invasion plan, but to assume direct command of it himself.

Another draft of wind blew out one of the candles on Lock's table, the flash of darkness rubbing salt in his reminiscent wounds. "Everything laid out... pah!" Lock spat as he relit the candle, gazing longingly at the lone flame in an abyss of cold and misery.

The General's focus on his map was disrupted by the growing noise of a pair of boots walking towards his cabin. A flood of light from the hall lanterns shattered the dim candle-glow of the cabin, as well as causing Lock to wince, as the cabin door was opened and a bespectacled rat sauntered in. "Evening, General. Glad I caught you still awake," the rat cheerfully greeted, even as rain dripped from his coat-tails and formed puddles on the floor.

Distastefully wrinkling his nose at the smell of soggy rat, Lock gave a sullen, "Good evening, Major Darcy."

"You didn't come down for dinner, so I thought I'd better check in and make sure you were all right."

"I did not come down for dinner, Major, because I doubt any food would have found a permanent home within my stomach."

"Ah." Darcy nodded understandingly. "Sea-sick?"

"Definitely not," the fox protested. He _was_ sea-sick, and had been for some time, but hated the thought of the mariners on board having a chuckle at the landlubber's expense. Signaling for Darcy to come over to the table, the General looked back towards his map. "Has the Harbour shown any sign of aggression?"

"Not really, sir. Just the usual defense preparations. No ships or the sort heading out from it, not in this weather."

Lock felt the pressure building in his stomach begin to ebb. Yesterday morning, the Southern Fleet had gotten within a few miles of Bully Harbour, the targeted debarking point for the invasion plan. It was an ideally placed base of operations: there was enough food storage there to keep any army on its paws (especially in the dead of winter), the port offered a communications line back to the Southern mainland, and the roads leading from the Harbour made a beeline for the Emperor's Palace at Amarone.

The question, of course, was how to go about taking said Harbour.

Nature had thumbed its nose at Lock. The winds and choppy waters made it unsafe and impractical for any kind of approach to the port, at least not with any sense of organization. Until the rain subsided, the Southern transports were stuck in limbo, only a paw's distance away from the goal, yet unable to grasp it. "Has there been any sight of the Imperial Fleet?"

"No, sir. At least, as far as we can tell, what with the weather and all."

Lock drummed his claws on the table top, staring at the paper depictions of land and water as if he were a deity overlooking his realm, checking to make sure his subjects were behaving accordingly. "That's some consolation, then. Glancing over my shoulder during battle makes me dizzy."

"I think the healers can do something about that, sir."

The fox's eyes flitted up from the map, aiming their humorless stare at the uncomprehending rat. "That was a joke, Major."

"Oh! Oh, uh, of course!" the rat sputtered. "I just wasn't sure if you actually couldn't, er, that is..."

"What have I told you about dithering, Major?"

Gulping, Darcy adjusted his spectacles, giving his own beady eyes a respite from the unrelenting glare of Lock. "Sorry, sir."

Trying not to think about why Darcy would think Lock was serious about getting dizzy during battle, the General once again turned to the less troubling business of war. "Write this down." Waiting for Darcy to take out a scrap of paper and quill, Lock gestured to his map. "Tell the Admiral I want to have at least ten ships-of-the-line in this area in the morning," he planned aloud, drawing a circle around the Imperial Docks at the southern tip of the Harbour. "They're to open fire and keep the Guards busy. If we're lucky, they hit the barracks as well."

"How long should they keep up the asault?"

"Until I tell them to stop."

"Very good, sir. Any changes to the rest of the plan?"

"I don't believe so. The storming party forms a bridgehead here," he said, indicating the shore of the Slups area in the middle of the Harbour coast, "and distract the Guard long enough for the rest of the Army to disembark." Lock allowed a hint of a smile to cross his face. "Then all we have to worry about is if the weather feels obliging."

"Think it ought to clear up by tomorrow, sir?"

"If it doesn't, this may be the first war called on account of rain." Lock didn't like just sitting here. The Imperial Navy could only lick their wounds for so long, and they would be biting his back sooner or later. "We'll risk it tomorrow, rain or not. Call for Captain Maxwell, and tell him to have his storming party ready by dawn."

The fact that the rat was biting his lip and shuffling his paws was not reassuring. "Is something the matter, Major Darcy?"

Taking a deep breath, Darcy explained. "Well, y'see, sir, that's actually why I came in to see you. It's about Captain Maxwell. He's had a bit of an accident."

The rain beat down with wet punches upon the ship, the echoes reverberating into Lock's cabin, making the only audible sound as Lock blinked in slow comprehension and Darcy stood in awkward silence. "What?"

"He slipped in the rain and smacked his head on the guard rail. The medic says he might have a percussion, or something like that…"

The silence was broken emphatically as Lock slammed a fist on the table. "Confound it!" he growled, his attempts at taking deep breaths only leading him to pound the table again. "Out of all the fool-headed things to do, why did that imbecile of a monitor have to go trouncing about in the rain like an over eager fish?"

"I'm not certain he meant to slip, sir…"

"Whether or not he intended to drive his skull into a rail does not make it any more convenient for _me_." His forehead started to feel heavy and unpleasantly warm. Rubbing his brow in frustration, Lock sunk back into his chair. He didn't want to look at the map. There was the nagging sensation that it was taunting him. "The only purpose of Maxwell's existence in my life was to lead the bridge-head into Bouillabaisse Harbor. I'd hate to think that the months spent having him memorize the maps and plans were a complete waste of my time."

Darcy shrugged. "Well, the healers say he should be better in a week or two. So if the rain stops by then, maybe he'll still be able to…" The rat blanched under the withering glare emanating from the General. "I, uh, guess I'll be leaving then."

"A wise decision, Major." Blast it all, what else felt like ruining Lock's already wretched evening?

Darcy has no sooner made it to the door when it swung forward, smashing into his face and laying the rat on his back. Unaware, or at least uncaring, of the injured major, a female weasel in a frilly pink nightgown stomped into the cabin, flames practically shooting from her mouth. "General Lock, may I have a word with you?" she barked, the civility of the sentence insincere as could be.

"No," Lock replied, without much hope that his wishes would be heeded.

His hypothesis proved correct as the seething weasel was stopped only by the table in her beeline for the General. "I have just been robbed, had my privacy invaded upon, been humiliated, and, as I understand it, _you_ ordered it!"

The heat of the weasel's words stoked the flames of Lock's headache. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

"Private Peskers, that... that _ferret_ barged into my room and began rummaging through my luggage! While I was still half-dressed! I only just pulled this on in time. And he stole from me! Right under my nose! Said it was your orders!" The female's claws were etching grooves into the wood.

"You didn't kill him, I trust?"

"He'll be walking with a limp for a while, but no, I didn't shoot the messenger. I did, however, take back the item he stole."

Sighing, Lock struggled to sit up straight in his chair. "Captain Steep, when I accepted your appointment into this army, I did so because I was told you may be of some use to me. And you are of far more use to me when you are sober."

Priscilla's tail stiffened indignantly. "If you're referring to the incident in the galley a week ago, there was more than just alcohol involved…"

"That 'incident' was merely the loudest piece of evidence of your drinking habits. You have been spotted intoxicated more than once, and as we are about to embark upon a war, I'd rather not have my officers drunk on duty."

""You _know_ I don't _ever_ drink on duty! I can control myself, I assure you."

"Then do so. Because if you are anything less than bright eyed and bushy tailed at any point during this campaign, you will be relieved. We can't have you tipping over during battle." His entire war plan was falling apart with great rapidity, and she was worried about little things like being discovered nude.

Priscilla sniffed. "And how _is_ your sea-sickness, sir?" The edge in her tone was unmistakable.

Lock tried to sit up straighter, but a sharp pain in his lower back caused him to slump back. "Tolerable."

Not looking pleased with having vented her spleen, Priscilla gave an icy salute. "Permission to return to my very public quarters?"

There was nothing Lock would have liked more, and indeed came within a hair's length of telling the weasel to take a long walk off a cliff. Just as the words began to leave his mouth, however, the faintest of memories removed itself from the fox's brain and countermanded the order. "No." He wasn't overly fond of Steep, but botching an invasion was hardly an appealing alternative. "You made mention of having lived within Bully Harbour for some time. How familiar are you with with the layout?"

Priscilla seemed jarred at this abrupt change of conversation. "As well as any beast is, I suppose."

The flames in his head simmered into mere coals, and even offered to die entirely. "You may have a chance to prove your use to me…"


	6. Old Lady Leary

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 5. Old Lady Leary**

_by Gloria Ruston_

The weak Primary sun could not even begin to penetrate the thick clouds massed over Bouillabaisse Harbour that spat ice, snow, and freezing rain at the natives below. Fog condensed over the murky waters and stretched out its octopus-like tendrils through the city – a frigid portent of the ships and enemies to come. A persistent wind stole the breath from a beast's throats with greater dexterity than a well-positioned knife and made hearing anything a practice in patience.

"Report!" Captain Gloria Ruston barked as a shadow detached itself from a nearby building, keeping its head low against the elements. It sidled up to her beneath the shelter of the Smelt's eaves and the stoat leaned down so that their muzzles almost touched. "Well?"

"Fogeys're set up down Zann's Alley, ma'am!" a seedy little ratmaid explained hurriedly, her eyes flashing fearfully from the depths of her hood. "An' the Wotfers are standin' at key barricades near the Banke an' Marketplace. The Guard have trebuchets aimed at the harbour awaitin' yer mark."

"MAUL?" Gloria's hackles rose on principle. _Can't trust those back-stabbing low-lifes t'leave well 'nuff alone. Hmph!_

"Smudgies're keepin' an eye on their reg'lar haunts 'long with the Op'ra House and Museum, ma'am."

_Regi'll have that in paw, then._ The captain nodded to herself.

Gerard Reginald Ruston and his Unsmudgables would fight tooth and claw to protect their precious artifacts. And talking of precious things...

_Bother._

There were going to be Hellgates to pay when they had the time to actually _discuss_ Pylaris' execution. Regi was becoming more and more prickly about such things as he got older. Going off on his favorite little serving wench probably hadn't helped the situation, either. Granted, without even a name to show for the death, Gloria was agitated herself. She'd deal with re-educating Markook about the proper techniques for extracting information later, though.

The stoat gave herself a mental shake and focused on the matter at paw, running through a mental checklist of preparations.

_The Fogeys, the Wotfers, the Unsmudgables, the Guard, MAUL, and... Ah, yes. There's that._ A smile curled the lady stoat's maw upward, and her eyes creased in delighted malice.

"What about the Sugar and Bilge?" she asked, licking her frozen lips. Ever since she'd deciphered the ploy from Whalebaker's unintelligible gibberish around the Herring, she'd wanted to try it out. It was amazing what those mad navy beasts picked up on occasion. Praise the Fates for such an opportune little invasion.

The rat giggled in a high-pitched, anxious way. "If they ever get t'shore, I don't envy 'em the _spirits_ they'll find round these parts. We sent the 'pothecaries t'the warehouses 'long the district. Finished getting the stocks ready fer any unfriendly sorts quarter hour ago. Er..." She paused, wringing her grubby paws together for warmth or worry. "Some o' the beasties outta the Slups're gettin' a bit stir-crazy. You reckon they'll join up with those Southerners if'n they get past our defenses?"

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about the Slurpees, Fermia, dear," Gloria remarked with a dismissive wave of her paw. "And in any case, I doubt those foreign frockheads'll get too far. They surprised the fleet at Magh, but this is _my_ harbour and they'll not be having my guard down s' easily with their little tricks."

"Aye."

"And the last matter...?"

"In place, Cap'n," the ratmaid affirmed. "Want I should tell the archers t'start the fire?"

"Ye haven't yet?" Gloria let the tiniest hint of disapproval taint her voice, then chuckled when the lass gulped and skittered away to make herself useful. A gust of ice wiped the grin from her face a moment later, though. Her teeth clattered together and her whole body shuddered.

_That wretched gull had better've gotten the timing right for those ships,_ the stoat grumbled inwardly as she hugged her coat closer and made a feeble attempt at molding herself into the Smelt's woodwork for protection. Why hadn't the MinoInn bothered to implement those giant fans to keep the weather at bay? Something about there not being enough hamster-power in the Imperium to run them? Or was that the reason for not putting up the elle-ick-trick flames in the street lamps?

_Bother._

If anything, the wind had only intensified in the last hour and a half as the military and loyal-or-be-arrested citizenry waited for an enemy that was taking its keelhauling time in actually mounting its promised assault. Gloria crouched low behind a neatly stacked row of crates, runners on either side prepared to deliver her orders come high waters or Hellgates... or present inclement conditions, as those were more pressing.

"Er... wot's takin' s'long d'ye think, Cap'n?" one of the runners asked, probably more to keep his jaw from freezing in place than out of any real curiosity.

Gloria considered snapping something rude at him about hunks of wood being impractical, insidious, and all together unreliable means of transport, but decided conversation was preferable to silence.

"Weather like this?" she said instead, forcing a dry chuckle. "Maybe the sea froze, and they got stuck."

His eyes widened and he gaped, minuscule cracks forming in the icy sheen across his feline face. "D'ye think the Navy'll be a'right, then? An' wot about the fish! C'n they breathe in ice? Should we be puttin' blankets o'er the harbour?"

The stoat stared at him, incredulous, for several seconds. Perhaps silence _was_ preferable.

Before she could give him a solid tongue lashing for being a gullible idiot, another wildcat, this one dressed like Gloria, but with orange cuffs and epaulets, skittered up the row of crates and saluted.

"What's the news, Sil?" The stoat didn't bother to return the gesture – decorum be hanged when it was below freezing.

"'Tross Gulls have spotted the enemy ships, ma'am," the wildcat relayed. "There... there might be a few more than we were expecting."

"What's a few more foreign fops?" Gloria sneered. "Just some extra driftwood for Slurpees t'sort through."

"But," Sil fretted, "I'm not sure if... I mean – I mean we do have the Wotfers, and the Kreehold haven't been sighted in an age, but... You see, ma'am, it's really all quite complicated and-"

"How many more?" Gloria cut her off, narrowing her eyes at the Mistress of the Keys.

"About a... a score, ma'am."

_"How many beasts t'a standard warship?" Gloria asked, carving a slice of rosemary-seasoned thigh from the roasted plover on her plate as she and the heads of the Bully Harbour factions faced each other over the rustic dining room table. "Two hunnerd?" She lifted the tender white meat to her mouth and smiled before tearing it from her fork and chewing loudly. "Maybe a few more? Mmf... And how many ships will be coming? We've had spies in the – Be a darling and pass the gravy, will ye, Regi? – in the South for _years

_. They won't be able t'muster more'n thirty rickety old trawlers!_

_"Ye take sea monsters and weather into account," she continued, dousing her dinner in rich amber liquid, "and yer only looking at a score of ships and four thousand beasties. We've that number in trained fighters 'mongst all the factions on top of a good two thousand maniacs out of the Slups!"_

_"Yer takin' an awful rosy view o' the matters at paw, Ruston," Fredrick Wright, leader of the Wotfers, growled, poking at his apparently-less-appetizing plover. "I wager those southern slimebacks are comin' in full style if they're sendin' a beast like General Lock t'spearhead the attack."_

_"Now where_

_did you hear that, Mr. Wright?" Regi interjected before Gloria could._

_"Oh, I got ears 'round town," the pine marten replied evasively. "Any case, don't switch the subject, tetchy-tail. I don't trust that it'll be so easy as yer makin' it out, Ruston. What sort o' guarantees have ye got fer me an' mine that this isn't a battle lost 'fore it begins?"_

_The lady stoat glared at him and he glared right back. She was tempted to cut off his eyelids so he'd never lose a staring contest again, but refrained. Regi would disapprove of staining the white table cloth._

_After the silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length, the Captain of the Guard said, "Ye'll be minding the Banke, Wright. That satisfy ye 'nuff that ye'll be paid?"_

_He blinked._

_Weakling._

_"Aye," the pine marten agreed. "That'll about do it. Still think yer underestimatin' the Southies, an' we all know what's happened before when certain_

_beasts have underestimated others..." He left the sentence dangling for the captain to hang herself on._

_"Yes." Gloria stabbed her plover in what some might call a 'meaningful' way and replied in a voice coated with sugar, "But certain beasts have also dealt with the problem. Nothing for a dear like yerself t'worry his fluffy little tail over."_

_Wright shrugged. "Jist don't say I didn't tell ye so, Cap'n Rusty."_

_It was a very lucky thing that the pine marten had the good sense to duck._

Fifteen minutes crept by before the cloud-like sails of the Southern armada could be seen, and ten more followed before the first of the jolly-boats docked. Gloria, Sil, and the runners watched as dark shapes tossed ropes up onto the Imperial Docks.

"Go!" the lady stoat hissed and the runners shot off like bolts from a crossbow in opposite directions. "Get back t' Zann's Alley and mind the Fogeys don't hit any on our side if it comes t'that," she instructed Sil. The wildcat nodded and was gone. Gloria followed suit, boots skidding over patches of ice and snow as she made her way to the archers.

Situated atop the Bates Casino that sported "a perfect view of a perfect harbour" – really this meant that the building was always in danger of crumbling into the ocean or having a particularly vengeful wave flood its lower floors – the Unsmudgable rangeblades waited.

Gloria climbed up through the trap door to the roof and tromped straight for the small huddle of creatures at the far end of the building. They all looked miserably cold with icicles hanging from their noses and snow turning even the darkest-furred beasts white. Still, they were alert and several had turned to face a tiny fire to warm their paws in preparation for the next order.

"Well, lads, lasses," the lady stoat said, grinning at them, "time t'burn the cockles of those Southies' hearts. Ready?"

"H'yup!"

"Light up, take aim, and fire at will."

"Oi!" a weasel protested. "That ain't kind, missus! How'd ye like me t'point my bow at you, eh?"

"Oh, just shoot!" Gloria snarled, knocking Will upside the head with her hook.

Ten elongated fireflies fought through the storm on a collision course with the docks. Two fell short, and one overshot, but the others hit their marks. For a moment, nothing happened save catcalls from the disembarking Southerners that implied the Emperor engaged in extra-marital affairs with base-born guttersnipes.

Then, there was a screech, followed by another, and another.

The Captain of the Stoatorian Guard cackled. As she watched, fire whirled along the docks and into the surrounding waters. Some creatures, scrambling to avoid the sudden blaze, pushed their fellows into the frigid seas, leaving them to drown, freeze, or generally kick the bucket.

"Oh, I do like lantern oil," Gloria remarked as burning splinters of blown timber inflamed the chaos below. The Guard had started firing the trebuchets. "And I _love_ my country!"

"Ma'am!" one of the Unsmudgables shouted, catching her attention. He jabbed a claw past the smoldering carnage that had become the docks. "Ma'am, they're attackin' the Barracks and Trenches!"

Ten ships had broken from what Gloria could see of the main body of the Southern Fleet. And as the Smudgie had said, they were launching ballistae at the southern tip of Bully Harbour.

"Hmph!" The lady stoat snorted. "Think they'll be landing there, do they? You!" she caught the Unsmudgable's vest with her hook and drew him close. "Run and tell Blademaster Ruston t'send some of his creatures t'stamp out those malingering morons!" She pushed him away and he hastened to comply.

"Now, then, General Lock," Gloria muttered to herself as she glared across the harbour, "what're ye up to?"


	7. For the Love of Grog

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 6. For the Love of Grog**

_by Priscilla Steep _

There were times—lonely, desperate times, as they so often were—when she felt that there was nothing more she wanted out of life than to see Bully Harbour burn.

So of course it didn't get to be her that started it.

Priscilla Steep was the last to leave the longboat. She wasn't the last beast off it, but thanks to a large rock that came hurtling out of the fog, the other beasts didn't have much of a longboat to leave, or legs with which to do so. She brushed splinters off her head and scampered after the rest of her regiment.

"Lilith, Peskers, Devonshire—you three up front, shields up. Step carefully. Bingo, Glucker, Trestles—you're on bucket line. Whatever it takes, keep the docks clear of fire for us if they set this one alight as well. Archers! Where are—Husker, you're behind Lilith—where are the others?" Steep cursed. Sergeant Husker, a stoat, was the only archer left. "Alright, you stay beside me. Swords out, the rest of you! Line up, three wide. Off the docks! Charge for the town!"

She paused momentarily and glanced across the bay at the inferno that was the Imperial Docks. It was hard not to envy them. She hadn't been properly dry since storming into Lock's cabin the previous evening. Was it wrong to hope there'd be a bit of flame to jog through on the Local Docks?

More longboats were coming in behind them—other ships were headed further north to the Fishminster's Warf. Steep could give them no more thought. Bully Harbour lay within her grasp, just a few soggy planks away.

Another rock crashed into the docks, but instead of breaking the timbers, it simply exploded in clay shards, splattering Lilith, Peskers and Devonshire's shields and legs with a grey-brown muck.

"Was that what I think it was?" Steep said, impressed.

"Y–yes," Peskers moaned, rubbing his shin where a shard had cut him—it had been his _good_ leg, too. Devonshire retched dryly, shaking sludge off his shield.

"Let's get off before they throw another one at us, then."

"That's funny," Husker muttered as they marched. "I would've thought there'd be more boats docked here."

"They'd sail them to safe harbour at Petroa," Steep explained.

"All of them, Captain? There's two little ones up ahead."

"You'd be assuming all the locals are intelligent, then, Sergeant? Shut up and run. Run! All o' you! Let's pick up the–"

Up ahead, Lilith slipped. Peskers and Devonshire were supporting each-other, wobbling. Steep's eyes widened. Her mouth opened to bellow, but whatever she said was drowned out by the _whoomph_ of fire.

"_Run!_ Run, you sons of pigeons! There's snow on the land! It can't get you if you're faster than it!"

But then her own boots met the lantern oil. It was sticky in the snow sludge, but she ran on, tail lifted high. The hail-rain kept her cold, the flames themselves never having a chance to take hold on her soaked clothing.

Lilith was gone, rolled off into the harbour. The rat would make it, probably—pneumonia would be her biggest enemy if they could secure the shoreline.

"It gets on you, dive into the water!" Peskers shouted, pushing Devonshire on ahead of him. Beside Steep, Husker had put arrow to his bow and was aiming at shapes beyond the fire. Another fire arrow whizzed out of the fog, piercing his forehead. Husker's arrow flew straight up, vanishing in the weather.

"Wot's that smell?" somebeast called. Steep smelled it, too—alcohol, no mistaking it. Her lungs burned; the soles of her boots were beginning to melt. But hotter still was her excitement at the prospect of hearing creaky hinges, feeling the sawdust from the rafters settle on her ears, sipping the sweet, salty, sour–

Devonshire tripped, his shield spiralling away, two arrows embedded in it. The soldiers running behind him stumbled over the pine marten, rolling in the flame, screaming. The rest leapt over and continued on. Steep roared plaintively—the idiot was just lying there flailing! She grabbed the marten's arm as she passed him by and swung him into the water. His footpaw caught her, bringing her down with him. Her paws flung out instinctively, pressing into the burning oil on the dock. Her skirts were on fire.

Steep stopped and stared into the smouldering yellow glow swarming over her paws. It warmed her stomach, curled her whiskers at the tips, and if she stayed there long enough, maybe–

Devonshire's paw shot out of the water and grabbed her tail.

_Sploosh_!

She held her breath, eyes stinging from the salt. Devonshire's limbs struck out at her. She grabbed him, pulling herself up. The water was oddly warm after the weather above. She broke the surface and gasped, Devonshire popping up after.

"Swim," she gurgled, grabbing at her Captain's beret before it floated away. They began kicking. There was a boat just ahead, tethered to the dock. The mooring, she noticed, was on fire. The boat was on fire, too. And the barrels inside the boat were on fire.

She dove, pulling Devonshire down with her.

The water boiled. Steep's ears ached—her whole skull felt compressed for a few seconds as they were bowled over in the water. Shards of wood shot past, some of it bouncing off their arms, heads and backs. Steep caught a glimpse of half of a very astonished-looking fish as it whirled through her murky field of vision. And then half of a very astonished-looking Bingo. More detritus sunk past them, but at this point Steep was very careful to pay it absolutely no attention.

She hoped Devonshire would do the same.

It was a few minutes later, coughing and spluttering, that the weasel and pine marten crawled ashore. Steep looked over her shoulder at the mess of flotsam that had been the Local Docks. More longboats were picking their way through the flaming wreckage, trying to get to shore amidst the hail of rocks and chamberpots—the light only serving to reveal their locations to the Harbour's defenders.

"Muddin' pyromaniacs," she spat, squishing her beret back on her head. "Come on, Private, on your footpaws. Still got your sabre? Good. Not gonna hold your paw, so keep up. Don't look back unless you hear steel."

Thankfully, the pine marten had no drawling retort. He nodded dumbly and held his sword out in front of him. Together, they charged.

There were logs pulled across the sand, piled two high and tied with rotting rope; they leapt these easily, Steep thrusting her sabre into the chest of the first rat that popped up. The next one lost an arm. The one after that lost his head—or enough of it that it was no longer useful to him. Steep kicked out, pulling her sword free of his neck. She wiped her face with her free paw and growled. Their immediate vicinity was clear.

"Thinking of shouting a war cry, Private?"

"N–no!"

"There's a good lad."

Steep turned around. It was hard to tell through the fog and rain, but it sounded like more longboats were crunching ashore. Muffled cries and excited orders fell gently around her shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Devonshire said. Steep was taking her uniform jacket off.

"What you _should_ be doing. You're coming with me. C'mon, take off your jacket." She held out her own, then turned it inside out and shrugged back into it, leaving it unbuttoned. She crammed her beret down her front to give herself a slightly paunchy belly and then began rubbing wet sand over any golden threads that stuck out of the jacket. She glanced up, saw him staring, and gently slapped him across the face. "Just _do it_, Private."

"Okay, okay..."

Seconds later, neither one was properly recognizable as a Southern soldier. Their green uniforms plastered with frozen sand and blood smattered their faces—Steep having rubbed some from her cheek onto Devonshire's head. They could easily be taken for beasts who'd just been relieved from the first wave of attack. Which, with Steep's next orders, they were.

"Don't make a peep, Bags. My name's Sis, you're Bags. Got a problem? No, you don't. Let the rest of that rabble hold the beach. We're going for a pint."

Devonshire stared at her, disbelieving, until she was almost invisible in the mist.

"Oh, of course we're going for a pint. Middle of a great bloody battle is the perfect time to go for a pint, isn't it, Captain Bunkwetter?" Seth mumbled. He looked around and realized he was alone. "Oh, blast."

He ran after her.

"This is wrong," Steep muttered, rubbing her arms and shivering—who's idea had it been to attack in winter? She would have liked to punch them about now. "This is all wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"Shut up, Bags. It's quiet. Too quiet."

"It could be a–"

"Shut up, Bags. Look—that building there?" She nodded towards it. "Bilge in the Bucket. The most famous tavern in the world. Trust me on this. Best Melted Crayon you could ask for. Mmmmm! But, it should be full, even now. Anybeast on break'd be relieving the tension..."

They sunk back into the shadows under the eaves as two ferrets ambled by, conversing tiredly.

"Awww, whud I wuddn't do fer a drink. Stupid MinoMis."

"Huh. Them tailheads prob'ly never even gonna make it this far, either."

"Eh, don't say that, you'll curse th'whole harbour..."

Steep waited until their grumbles faded before edging across the street. Just the thought of a warm sludge seeping down her throat made the ache in her skull recede a little.

"Would you just _look_ at all the blood on my paws..."

Good to know the lad wasn't scarred for life, she guessed, sighing.

"Shut _up_, Bags..."

She pushed open the tavern door with her sabre—tip. Nothing sprang out at her. Nothing exploded. Her heart raced.

She stepped inside. Her boots echoed dully on the dry wooden floor. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness.

There were two rats curled up on the floor, mugs clutched tight in their paws. Their faces were frozen in contortions of pain. Steep rubbed the tip of her boot into the damp spot beside one of them, then knelt down to sniff it.

Her eyes never left the bar. Everything else was empty—tables and chairs left strewn about as if somebeast had driven all the patrons out with cudgels. Or perhaps that was just how they were always arranged. Steep couldn't really tell. It all looked so different without anybeast swinging from the chandelier with a hatchet clenched in their jaws.

"Anybeast in here?" she called softly, rising. Nothing moved behind the bar. She shot a glance at the stairs, then the hallway leading to the back rooms. Nothing.

Her ear twitched. Sawdust. She glanced up and swore, stumbling over the dead rats and falling on her back.

"Captain?" came the sleepy query from the rafters. "I must have dozed... I apologize. Oh! Don't drink the grog. It's poisoned."

Steep stared at the plover.

"Pip, get your feathered carcass down here immediately." She never trusted roosting birds. Not after that one date...

"Oh," Devonshire said, finally stepping inside himself to see what the commotion was. "A bird! Can we eat him?"

"No," Steep said as she stood up. "He's got a chitty."

"Does he have it on him? We could pretend we didn't know."

"Shut up, Bags. This is Pip, he's with us. Now you tell me, bird, what happened here. Stow that away, we don't need it."

Pip had fished out his paper from the messenger tube around his leg, but paused and slid it back upon catching Steep's expression.

"Well, I don't know what happened, Captain. I came here as you instructed—nearly got shot at trying to get in, mind you—and I settled down to wait. Nothing happened until these two rats came in and started helping themselves to the storage."

Steep rubbed her face, wincing. Her claws squeezed, drawing pin-points of blood, then gently raked down the smooth scab from between her eyes down to her mangled brown nose.

"Augh. There's no way to test all of it, is there? Curse them... curse them all to Hellgates! Gulls, did I really risk–" she paused, glancing at Devonshire, before straightening up and clearing her throat imperiously.

"Pip! Go find grog. Untainted grog. And then report back to me here. Devonshire... you may go with him. State your rank and regiment if you're caught by our side."

"And if I'm caught by the other side?"

"Pretend you're drunk."

The weasel sunk into a chair as the others snuck out. She pulled her boots off, set them under the chair, then peeled strips of snake leather off her pawpads before leaning back again to pull her beret out of her shirt. She flung it onto the table and stared blankly at the wood-grains, tracing the outlines of various spills with her claws. Water dripped off her in muted rhythm, some of it frosting in the creases of her uniform. Her whiskers grew heavy with frost.

Her paw shook as she reached into the pocket of her inside-out coat and took out the little metal cigar case. She clicked the lid open and poured harbour-water out into the floor, one claw holding the cigars in. A small, soggy pink card fluttered out.

She bent down and picked it up, expecting the worst. There was always something more horrible to occupy her mind than the death of nearly her entire regiment—something to drown out the guilt of not heading directly for those trebuchet outposts...

_To my future sunrise..._ She turned the card over. _...for our future victory. ~C. Scott_

Well... at least it was better than what was engraved on the case itself.

She moaned and buried her head in her arms.


	8. I Cried You a River

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 7. I Cried You a River**

_by Nemik Allan_

Committing murder was never an easy thing to do. First, before a beast could even attempt the crime, they would need to thoroughly consider the variables and consequences that came with it. For example, did they leave behind any evidence that suggested they were to blame? If they had, did they have the skill to clean it up afterwards? Did anybeast expect them of wrongdoing? And most importantly, were there any witnesses?

But Nemik Allan hadn't thought. Maybe that was why Harper was dead.

It was truly a shame that Harper had had to die. The ferret had been a fine crewbeast and an excellent navigator at that, but, unfortunately for him, he had also been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He would've lived had it not been for him witnessing the first mate cutting Barrett's lifeline.

Nemik had acted fast and, without bothering to realize who he was about to kill, pushed Harper overboard. It was only a few moments later when he learned that he had murdered the single most important member of the crew. Now it would be a miracle if they ever reached Bully Harbour.

"By th' Fates!" Nemik yelled, slamming his paw onto his knee. He winced and stood up from the stool. A drop of water seeped from one of the many cracks in the ceiling and landed perfectly on the end of the old stoat's graying snout. He wiped it off and groaned. To make matters worse, the storm was becoming more and more ferocious with every passing second and without Harper there was no way of getting out of it.

The Imperium was doomed and it was his entire fault. The Fates hated him. Nemik cursed.

"Are you alright, sir?"

The first mate turned at the sound of the familiar voice.

_Ah, dangit, they found me._

"Ah, Kriley, me ould messmate!" he exclaimed a tad too quickly and cheerfully. "Nah, everythin's fine 'ere. Is there somethin' that'cha need?"

_Better get rid of 'im quick._

The spectacled rat shook his head and sat in an empty chair, smiling oddly before grabbing the sides of it with all of his might and planting his footpaws on the floor.

"Is everythin' alright? Ya look like ya've just witnessed a murder."

Nemik chuckled nervously.

"N-no, everything's okay," the bosun answered, anxiously glancing at the walls around him as if they were going to close in upon him. In less than a moment, the walls around them creaked and groaned louder than they usually did, followed by an earsplitting scratching noise. Kriley huddled deeper into his chair and planted his footpaws on the floor with enough force that it looked like the bosun was glued to the spot.

"Are ya sure that'chure okay?" Nemik inquired. Kriley had always been a weird one, refusing to go near any females at all, but this was something entirely different.

_Somethin's goin' on._

"Yes, sure, fine, never better," he answered a bit too quickly, earning a strange look from Nemik.

"Are ya su-" Nemik tried to say but was interrupted by a deafening bang as something huge slammed into the Stormchaser's hull, knocking both him and Kriley out of their seats. The first mate grunted in pain as he crashed into the wall, leaving his head throbbing and making him see stars.

After a few seconds, he slowly staggered to his feet, his old bones creaking from the strain, and looked around. The lower deck was in shambles. Chairs and tables were upturned, mops and brooms sat strewn over the floor as if they had been left there all along, and empty bottles of foul smelling liquor lay shattered, leaving behind dangerous pieces of multicolored glass everywhere.

Kriley lay in a corner, gently massaging his head and looking around for his spectacles. When the bosun found them, he quickly polished them off and placed them back on his snout.

"What…what was that?" Nemik made an effort to yell, all thoughts of Harper abandoned, but it came out as more of a choked murmur.

The rat brushed himself off and wheezed once before answering the stoat.

"What, you didn't know?"

"Didn't know what?" Nemik bellowed but was interrupted by the soft pitter-patter of approaching footsteps. The first mate turned and glimpsed a group of crewbeasts clustering into the room, a terrified look on all their faces. Their teeth chattered out of fright and they glanced at the walls anxiously before huddling together in a corner, rocking back and forth as if they were hiding from a monster that was coming to get them.

"What's goin' on, Krill?"

Ignoring the first mate, Kriley staggered towards the group.

"Did he hit it?" the bosun inquired. The crewbeasts shrugged.

"We don' know. Most o' us didn't want to watch so we came down 'ere," one of the vermin, a scrawny-looking fox, answered.

Nemik's eyes grew wide in horror.

"Hit what?" he shouted. "Somebeast, answer me!"

The tiny fox turned to him and chuckled.

"O' co'rse yew don' know, Mister Allan… or should I say Misster Allan," he began, earning a disapproving glare from the first mate. "Little prissy-paws went and hid down 'ere while the rest o' us were in the middle o' the storm, fightin' fer our lives. Did'jer get yer feet wet, ya lily-livered coward, or did'ja just-"

The fox made it no further with what he was saying. Nemik leaned forward and dealt the crewbeast a hefty punch to his face, leaving the vermin sprawled on the floor, clutching his now-bloodied nose. The stoat leaned forward and drew his dagger, smiling a wicked gap-toothed grin.

"I said…answer me. What. Did. We. Hit?"

The sniveling fox cowered on the floor of the deck, covering his face and bawling out tears.

"I'm sorry, sir! I'm sorry!"

Nemik grabbed the fox by the collar of his shirt and hoisted him up .

"Aye, I know yer sorry," the stoat began before pressing the dagger to the fox's neck. "Now answer the question. What did we hit?"

"It's an iceberg, sir! An iceberg!" the fox shouted instantly.

Nemik dropped the scared fox immediately.

He really wished he hadn't killed Harper.

With the agility of a squirrel, Nemik pushed through the crowd of crewbeasts, giving Kriley a glare for not telling him about the iceberg before, and scrambled up the ladder that led topside. The stoat scurried as fast as he could across the ship's deck, slipping multiple times on the slick surface and not even noticing the hail that was pelting him. He made his way to the bridge, hoping that the steersbeast had everything under control.

A cascade of chilly water doused him as he ran up the stairs to the bridge, panting as he went.

"Ripper, what's the status?" he shouted as he rounded the corner and set eyes upon Ripper, the steerbeast.

Nemik stopped in his tracks. Ripper lay on the floor, unconscious, and another beast, holding his tri-corn hat with one paw and the ship's wheel with the other, stood nonchalantly as if there wasn't a knocked out beast by his footpaws.

_You've gotta be kiddin' me._

Hearing Nemik's cry, Captain Wazzock turned and smiled.

"Ah, Mister Allan, my trusted first mate. I've been wondering where you were. Now that you're here, please tell me, what do you make of this situation?"

Nemik wasn't listening. Instead, the stoat stared at the inert body of the unconscious steerbeast, hoping that he would get up and that this was all some sort of an elaborate hoax. The first mate glanced up at the captain, unable to say anything.

_This is some sort o' punishment fer killin' Barrett and Harper, ain't it? I killed them and so the great Spirit in the Sky wants me te' die too._

Nemik groaned.

"Are you alright, Nem? You look like you've seen the ferret of Death, sickle waving about in his paws," the rat said.

_No, I saw somethin' far worse...You._

"C-cap'n Zock, W-w-what happened te' Ripper?"

Wazzock reached down and retrieved his spyglass from the deck. He tossed it to Nemik, who fumbled with it and accidently dropped it, and then turned back to the wheel.

"Well, after we narrowly missed the first iceberg, and let me tell you, that was a close miss. I could have probably put my footpaws off the side to cool them it was so close. Well anyways, I looked through my spyglass and…are you sure you're okay, Nem? Maybe we should go down to the galley and get you a hot biscuit to warm that old muzzle of yours. It seemed to help Ripper before he…well, you know."

"N-no sir, I'm fine. Please…uh…get on with yer story,"

Wazzock shrugged.

"Alright then, suit yourself. Well I looked through my spyglass and you wouldn't be able to guess what I saw."

Nemik had recovered the spyglass from the deck and was already peering through it. He lowered his gaze and dropped it, almost breaking its lens in the process, and then turned to the captain.

"T-t-t-t-t-t-two icebergs?" No wonder Ripper had fainted. The iceberg duo was colossal. Both of them looked like they spanned the full extent of the ocean, floating beside each other like two giant guardians of the sea.

"Yes, two icebergs," Wazzock stated, grinning confidently. "But do you see that in the middle of them?"

Nemik picked up the spyglass and looked through it once more. In the center of the icebergs was a tiny gap, about the size of the Stormchaser herself. The first mate knew exactly what the captain was thinking.

"Y-y-yer not serious?" He really, really wished he hadn't killed Harper.

"Oh, but I am," the captain stated. "That iceberg used to be a huge leviathan among the rest, but after years and seasons of melting and eroding it has made a canyon in the center, leaving two equally monstrous icebergs side-by-side. And that canyon is just the right size for our ship to fit through it. I think. Never have quite had a paw on perspective and proportions."

"WHAT!?" Nemik shouted at the top of his lungs. "That's the craziest thing I've ever heard! It's stupid and reckless and you'll get us all killed!" _And more importantly, you'll get me killed. _"Why can't we just go around it?"

"Our ship is the fastest ship in the fleet. We'll ram straight into the iceberg before getting close to getting around it. I have a bit more of a paw on distance and probalities, you see."

"Then drop the anchor and slow us down!" Nemik argued.

"In the middle of a storm? The only thing it might catch is a wayward whale. And though that might solve the problem, that would be reckless."

"And this isn't?"

The rat chuckled. "Oh lighten up, you old horror. Haven't you ever been told to see the fun in life?"

"Well, I don't think riskin' me life is very fun."

The captain busted out laughing.

"Ha ha ha! Of course you don't, mate. You probably think that it's more fun to slit beast's lifelines when they're not looking."

Nemik's eyes grew wide in fright. Captain Wazzock knew. The first mate reached for his dagger and began advancing on the captain, prepared to take his life. If he knew then it wouldn't be long before the entire crew knew.

_Sorry, but there's a reason why I'm called the first mate. I always come first._

"Ha ha ha ha! I'm just pulling your tail, mate," Captain Wazzock finished, turning around in time to see Nemik with the dagger, picking his teeth and trying to act like he wasn't about to murder the rat.

"Ha ha ha," the first mate laughed worriedly before sheathing the dagger in his belt.

The icebergs were barely a few-hundred yards away from the Stormchaser. Wazzock twirled back around to the wheel and stared at the oncoming icebergs in concentration.

"They're coming. Are you ready, mate?"

Nemik shut his eyes in fright and grabbed onto the rail for support. Captain Wazzock leaned forward and held the wheel tight, not appearing to blink or even breathe, as he began maneuvering the ship into the canyon.

The first mate thought that the first bang he had heard while he was in the hold was loud, but nothing was compared to this. The sound of creaking and groaning timbers as well as the crash of wood upon ice felt like fire in the old stoat's ears.

He really, really, really, really, really, really wished he hadn't killed Harper.

The stoat cracked open his eyes and, unlike what he had expected, he wasn't in Hellgates. The ship was still intact and everybeast was still alive, pouring out of the hold like ants out of an anthill to see what the earsplitting noise had been. Nemik slowly got to his feet and looked around. The frozen walls of the two icebergs loomed around the ship like a shield and, asides from the stray raindrop or hailstone, protected it from the storm's rough weather.

Captain Wazzock's calculations had been correct. The canyon had been the exact right size for the Stormchaser to fit through it perfectly and, besides the rough entrance, it was smooth sailing throughout.

Nemik allowed himself a brief smile. He was still alive.

"By the fur!" somebeast yelled as they surveyed the outside, causing more excited chattering and shouting from the other crewbeasts. "Look at the size of 'em!"

"Wow!"

"I kin see my reflection!" a beast shouted as he leaned over the port rail and stared at the glassy ice.

The commotion became louder and louder as more and more of the crewbeasts filed out of the ship's inner rooms and compartments, all staring at the ice in mixtures of confusion and awe. Some leaned over the Stormchaser's deck and touched the rime, while the others just stared in amazement as they tried to do something useful on the ship.

Wazzock glanced over his shoulder at his first mate and chuckled.

"And you doubted me. Well, to be candid, so did I a bit." He laughed and proceeded to continue steering the vessel.

"Do me a favor, will you? Furl the sails for me. We're moving a tad too fast. Of course, I don't necessarily think that going fast is bad, but it may worry the crew if we're going top speed through such a small area."

Nemik was about to do what the captain had asked him when he was interrupted by a sound that he wasn't expecting. A scream. The first mate turned and pinpointed where the noise had come from. A crewbeast stood by the ship's stern rail, staring at what used to be the opening of the frozen canyon. He quickly glanced at what the crew member was staring at and said the foulest word in the dictionary.

"Uhh…Cap'n Zock? I'm going te' have to ignore your request."

"Huh? Why?" the rat asked, whirling around as he did. He didn't need an answer. The two icebergs were being pushed together by the stormy waves and were fitting together like a puzzle piece, threatening to crush the Stormchaser and her crew between them. Already it looked like the opening they had sailed through hadn't even existed.

"You have been given permission to ignore my request, Mister Allan."

"W-w-what do we do?"

"Well I think it's fairly obvious what we have to do, Nem. We just have to scamper this ship as fast as she will go," Wazzock said confidently. "She isn't called the fastest ship in the fleet for nothing. You see, I don't know how they figured that out, I don't believe they raced the ships against each other. Remind me to ask for the documentation later, Nem." Nemik wasn't listening. Already the gap between the ice and ship was getting thinner.

The captain strapped himself to the wheel and concentrated on what was in front of the ship. Screams and yells were beginning to break from the lower deck as more and more of the crewbeasts were realizing the danger that they were in. Nemik bit his lip nervously and tried not to join them.

"Do you see that, Nem?" Wazzock asked a moment later.  
He peered at what the captain mentioned and sighed in relief.

"Is that-?

"The exit?" the rat finished for him. "As I always say, chap: when you get down into the muck, luck shall be the stepping stones to get you out. Or something like that. I think there's some sort of wordplay with muck and luck supposed to be there…"

Blam! Nemik turned at the sound and had to hold his head to keep himself from fainting. The icebergs' edges had connected like a puzzle piece behind the ship, making the gap between the walls and the vessel drastically smaller. The first mate couldn't help but follow along with the rest of the crew and scream. He swirled back around and gazed at the exit like a hawk about to catch its prey. It was so close. They might just make it. Another slam sounded from behind him.

_It's over, we're dead. _

Nemik closed his eyes and prepared for the pain to come.  
It was strange. There was no pain. But he could hear screams all around him as crewbeast after crewbeast was crushed by the icebergs. Maybe the fates took pity on him and gave him a painless death. More and more screams. Nemik slowly opened his eyes and glanced around him.

The ship was still intact. Wazzock stood by the helm, grinning from ear to ear. Everybeast was still alive and accounted for. The screams he had heard weren't screams, but something else entirely. They were cheers.

"Captain!" a crewbeast shouted.

"Wazzock!" the remaining crew finished for him.

The rat turned from the wheel and smiled, basking in his glory. He bowed once and then took a step away from the wheel, accidently stumbling as he went. He chuckled out of embarrassment.

Nemik gradually rose to his feet and glanced behind the ship. The two icebergs had conjoined and now formed what appeared to be only one massive chunk of ice. The storm had subsided to some extent, being reduced to a mere sprinkle of rain that fell slowly from the cloud-filled sky and the occasional rough wave that brushed into the vessel. Dawn light painted the sky with hues of light-blue and rosy pink, and gulls flew in the horizon, almost as if there had never been a storm at all. But that didn't mean he hadn't been in danger.

"You!" Nemik yelled, pointing at Wazzock with a grimy claw. "Yew think yer some kind o' hero, fer savin' the crew from all o' that, don'cha? Well, let me tell ya somethin', captain. Have ya fergotten that yew were the one who put them in danger? That was reckless and yew know it! What would yew 'ave done if those icebergs had crushed us, huh?" _And more importantly, crushed me. _

The captain shrugged.

"I don't know."

"O' course, yew don't know," the first mate said. "If those icebergs had crushed us then we'd all be flat as pancakes and the Imperium would be in the paws of those southerners."

"Hey! Lay off Captain Wazzock, will ya?" a weasel yelled.

"Yeah, it's not like yew did anythin' te' help."

Nemik glared at his subordinates.

"I did more than you!" he bellowed.

"Ha! No ya didn't!" the beast started. "I saw ya. You were up on the bridge, crying like a little baby. You had yer eyes closed and everything."

Nemik began reaching for his dagger but was stopped by Wazzock.

"Gentlebeasts, I must admit that Mister Allan has a point. I did in fact act rashly and I did endanger all of you in the process. He recommended that we go around the icebergs but I insisted that we go through them. For that, I am sorry," the rat said. "But what matters is that we're all still alive and, now that the storm has passed, we can make our way to Bully Harbour so that we can help all of our fellow beasties deal with the southerners."

"But we don't have a navigator. Harper's dead. How are we supposed to make it there on time without 'im?" a beast asked.

"Maybe he's still alive and floating in the sea somewhere. We should turn around and try to find him. Then he can get us back on course," one crewbeast suggested.

"Or maybe he's dead and we'll take too much time lookin' for him, and not make it to Bully 'arbour in time. For all we know, the southerners could've taken it by now. I say we keep going!" another put forward.

Wazzock scratched his chin thoughtfully. "All very good ideas, but before I make another reckless decision I'm going to have to ask my trusted first mate what he thinks. Eh, Nemik?"

"What, yew want me te' decide?" Nemik asked, perplexed by the sudden question.  
"Well you are my first mate, Mister Allan. You got a lot more salt encrusted in your ears than I, I bet. You must have picked up a bit of direction in your whiskers, eh?"

The stoat stood for a moment, watching the group of crewbeasts staring at him anxiously. Some looked up at him with pleading eyes, silently begging that he choose to go back for their navigator, while the rest made paw motions symbolizing that he should decide to continue on aimlessly through the ocean without Harper.  
"Erm…" he began. On one paw, if they continued on without the navigator, then they might never make it to Bully Harbour on time. On the other, if they went back for the poor sap and found him, then he would undoubtedly tell the others how Nemik had killed Barrett. In the end, it didn't matter what anybeast asked him to do. It always went back to the same question he had asked himself so many seasons back: what was he going to choose, himself or the Imperium?

"…We keep going."


	9. Airship Pirates

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 8. Airship Pirates**

_by Kriley _

Kriley groaned. He tried twisting to one side, then the other, and then finally lay flat on his back.

_Bother._

The speckled rat had managed to get a little sleep, but after a dream that involved having to save the entirety of Bully Harbor from muffins with only a shovel and a spool of thread, he was left awake and confused, his whiskers twitching with anxiety. What if there was something else lying in wait to ambush them before they arrived? What if they were too late? What if the muffins had been stale?

At this rate, Kriley assumed that the _Stormchaser_ would arrive in Bully Harbor in less than two days' time, and they would most likely be dealing with the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard. That caused a shiver to slice him from ears to tail. _Of all the beasts..._

Despite his condition, the bosun had nothing against most females. This one, however, was a definite exception. The thought put extra weight on his mind and even as he shut his eyes, he knew he wouldn't get any more sleep.

Fumbling about on his bedside table, the rat grabbed his spectacles. Placing them on his snout, he stood up as the sharp details of his cabin swam into focus. He attached his belt and saber, grabbed his sketchbook, and then strode out, inhaling the comforting brackish air as he did.

Just as he was making his way toward the bow of the ship, he stopped. _Is that...?_ He fanned his ears, and his suspicions were confirmed; whispering from behind a stack of barrels. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, the words were faint, but just barely discernible.

"When we... kill him?"

Kriley narrowed his eyes and frowned. He crept closer, tail swishing just above the ground.

"Not tonight. 'ed be expectin' dat. But soon.. we'll rip his stinkin', mizzable, cowardly guts out and 'ang 'im wid 'em."

Kriley recognized the voice as Flaxeye the stoat. _A thoroughly troublesome creature, that one. Dirty fur and an irritating face to boot._ It didn't surprise the bosun that he would be involved in something like this.

"It's about time." Another voice, this one belonging to another stoat, Ash, chimed in. "Huh, you all saw 'im while we was trying to outrun the icebergs. Cryin' like a kit! Wot a yellow-bellied scringer."

"I bet any one of us would make a better first mate." That voice belonged to....

_Jibfang?_ The bosun blinked his surprise. The second mate, shirking his duties and conspiring for murder? _An awful shame._

"Aye, but keep it under yer 'ats, mates," Flaxeye whispered. "Now, let's git back."

Kriley hesitated, his paw flickered halfway to the hilt of his saber before he stopped himself. Jibfang was a competent fighter with a cutlass, which he was sure to have with him. Kriley would have his paws full with the weasel alone, let alone his two other cohorts.

Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, the rat crouched low, pressing himself against the shadows and clutching his sketchbook close to his chest. He waited there, barely daring to breathe as the three conspirators sneaked past. When he was sure they were far enough, he stood once more, dusting himself off.

_What to do?_

Kriley was not particularly eager to save the first mate's life, but he could not allow murder to take place. He would have to deal with them, but later; they were riled up, and blood was bothersome and difficult to get out of his fur.

Instead, he adjusted his cloak and sidled up to the mast. _Ah, right. She's working lookout now._ "Sunyl?" he called up, cupping his paws around his mouth. "Are you up there?"

"Y-yes, sir!" A few moments later, a long-eared fox head poked out over the side of the crow's nest. "I'm here, sir! And very much awake!"

The rat grinned faintly. "You can come down. I'm taking over for you for now."

"R-really?" The vixen shot down the side of the mast with such alarming speed that Kriley found himself reminded of a pine marten. Once she was standing on the deck, she etched a salute. "Thank you, sir!"

The rat offered a quick nod, taking an unobtrusive step backwards. Sunyl was an eager and hard-working crewbeast, but she did tend to get a little too close for Kriley's comfort.

Balancing his book, the rat made shaky progress to the top of the crow's nest. Once he had finally arrived, he blew a sigh, ears sagging slightly in exhausted contentment.

Ever since he had come to be a part of the _Stormchaser's_ crew, Kriley had envied the lookouts. It was tiring and oft-times dull work, but up high there were no beasts to be bothered by, and the wind tugged at his fur in a pleasant manner. Right at this moment, the stars glimmered and winked off the surface of the water, sharing a grand secret with the rat alone.

At that, the bosun whipped out a quill pen from inside his cloak pocket and began sketching. Sunyl had not put out the small lantern, and it flickered merrily, casting shadows over the parchment. Kriley's eyes would flicker up every so often, mostly to catch the stars in place, but also so that he could make sure there were no icebergs hidden about anywhere. So far, there were none. He huddled underneath his cloak against the chill.

Around the sixth or so glance upward, there was quite suddenly a rat face in the way.

"Hullo there!"

Kriley gasped and nearly toppled over the crow's nest. Captain Wazzock grinned. "Hrm, bad breath, I suppose; that's what I get for snacking on those bloomin' onions as Soriss called them... perhaps because they made him cry. Don't know if lizards cry though. Still, Krill, that's not the way you greet somebeast! Especially somebeast with food."

The bosun blinked. His captain was now perched precariously on the jibspar, wobbling slightly. Kriley cleared his throat. "Is there anything I can help you with, Captain?"

"Oh, not at all Krill, not at all. Just wanted to say hello and see how you're doing on the precipice of rip-rollicking adventure! Lovely weather for that sort of thing, yes?" Without waiting for a response, the rat captain peered down at Kriley's sketchbook. "Oh? What's this?"

Kriley's fur prickled with irritation. "It's a chart. Well, it will be. I figure as long as we've lost the compass, I might as well try and chart out the position of the stars in the sky. You know," he went on, "as long as we can find the north star, the rest can easily be put into pl-"

"Oh, I knew that. Very ingenuitive of you. Shows capable bosunship." Wazzock said with a wave of his paw. "I meant, what's that?" This time he pointed at something in the bottom corner of the parchment.

The dappled rat's eyes slit at the interruption. "That's just a sketch, Captain."

"Is that me?" Wazzock asked. "My, yes!" The captain nearly squeaked with delight. "The resemblance is remarkable, really. You even got the scruff on my chin!" He beamed. "I didn't know you could draw, Krill! Marvelous."

Kriley shifted. "Well, it's not something that I-"

His words sunk halfway as Wazzock snatched his pen away and began sketching away. "Tell me, Krill," he began. "Have you ever heard of the dreaded wobeast?"

"I'm afraid not, Captain."

Wazzock's furious scribbling was producing a serpentine sea creature. "Well, best you know about it now before it's too late. Tricky beasties that haunt the decks of ships like this one. They just love to eat rats like you for breakfast, or perhaps mid-afternoon tea. Tricky, tricky beasties." The creature looked ready to devour sketch-Wazzock's head.

_Indeed._ "Rats like me?" Kriley leaned back and raised an eyewhisker. "Why?"

Wazzock snorted. "Why not? I taste awful. I should know. But no worries. The wobeast only is to be feared during certain times of the season. And I've been told they like shiny things." He finished with a flourish. "There. Oh! Krill, are you hungry?"

The bosun was poised to shake his head, when his stomach gleefully answered for him. Wazzock nodded judiciously.

"Just as I thought. You barely ate anything when you had the chance! Here." Rummaging in his pockets and nearly falling over in the process, the captain came up with a biscuit, which he offered the bosun. "I figured you would be hungry, so I got another one for you too. Absolutely scrumptious. Please scarf this one, if you will. "

Kriley realized he had not eaten for quite a while. Now that the threat of drowning wasn't looming overhead, the speckled rat gratefully nibbled on the biscuit as Wazzock watched expectantly. The bosun gave his whiskers a little twitch. "These are good."

"See?" Wazzock grinned. "Now, admit it! Our Soriss is an excellent cook."

"I suppose so," Kriley murmured. [i]For a great scaly brute.[/i] "Oh, by the way," he added. "You should know, Captain, that some of the crew is plotting to murder the first mate. I overheard them just now."

"Oh?" Wazzock asked with his mouth half-full of biscuit. "We certainly can't have that. I expect you'll nip it in the tail, but we've got Bully Harbor to take care of now. And once the crew is occupied, they will be certain to forget all their little squabbles." He swallowed. "You know what would make this even better? Jam. I wonder if we could find a jellyfish nearby. But I wonder; how much of them is jelly and how much fish? I'm willing to guess it's a seventy-twenty split."

Kriley frowned. "Pardon me," he said, "but we haven't even caught sight of Bully Harbor ye-"

The bosun's eyes lifted, and then his jaw dropped. The distant flicker of a lighthouse broke the darkness ahead. _But... How? Ugh. Only one thing left to do._ Kriley inhaled deeply.

"Laaaaaaand hooooo!"

He'd always wanted to do that.


	10. Perfection Never Was a Requirement

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 9. Perfection Never Was a Requirement**

_by Pleasantrie_

_They'll poison their own troops..._

The thought made the bird shiver as he slipped through the alleys of the Slups, moving up the hill that was Bully Harbour. Nature's way of reminding everyone where they were in life. At the bottom, by the docks, the shanties were as crowded as the beasts that had inhabited them. Or rather, that still inhabited them in most cases. They were too poor to even warrant evacuation.

They moved uphill – where those on top lived.

_"I'm sure there's another tavern just down the road!"_

"And I'm sure it's poisoned too. Don't suppose you'd like to give the Captain a cup of that?"

"Well, to be honest with you..."

"We're going_ up the hill. They won't have had time to taint the supplies there."_

"Who put you in charge, bird?"

"The Captain did, Lord Prissypaws!"

"What? How dare--"

"Oh yes, your name followed you! Look, she told you, go with him._ With me. I'm in charge, and if you don't like it, you can pick your way back to the Bilge and say you were frightened by the loud noises."_

"...conniving little wormpecker."

The street ahead was nearly empty, certainly less chaotic than most of the trip had been. A trio of rats in grey uniforms were leading a band of refugees past the alleyway. The sight brought a sigh to the bird's beak, and he leaned back against the stone of the building next to him. It was deliciously cool, icing down his temper's mercury and slowing the metronome jigging in his chest, in time with his leg.

"Napping on the job, featherbrains?"

A Primary iceberg couldn't solve the problem that was Seth. At the marten's comment, Pip's eyes opened to a slit, leveling a glare at the beast. "You can cross first, this time."

As soon as the ragged troupe passed and the street quieted back down, Seth led them across.

Unfortunately, months of beatings still hadn't taught the mammal to keep his head down. Seth started across the cobbles as if he were taking a stroll in the Emperor's own garden, back erect and a smirk on his muzzle. He even had the gall to throw over his shoulder, in a reedy yet imperious tone, "What are you blubbering about, bird? It's an empty street."

Pip seethed. Seth strode, smirking at the horizon. _That insufferable beast has all the luck_, the bird thought as they crossed unmolested. The door to the tavern was open and the interior empty. They made their way inside, picking about the surreal scene. A half-finished mug of ale lay on the bar top, the stool in front of it knocked back, as if its owner removed himself in a hurry.

"A snuff bar!" Why Seth sounded so excited about sniffing, Pip wasn't sure. He hopped around to the back of the bar, eying the bottles along the top of the back wall. Wine. Liquor. All opened.

Then, on a lower shelf, the light glinted off of a golden liquid. Using a claw, Pip pulled one out, examining the top. Still sealed with wax. Dusty, old wax. Unmolested wax.

"Found some, Mr. Devonshire."

"_Lord_ Devonshire. And I have an idea..."

-------------

The pair sat in the second floor chamber; Seth lounged in an overstuffed armchair while Pip roosted on its ottoman. A half-emptied tin of snuff laid between them, and they gazed out the window at the scene below.

It was as if the other side of the street was a different world from the peace of the tavern. A horde of beasts, two dozen at least, burst from the alley that Pip and Seth had arrived from, falling into a well-practiced fence of black uniforms and deadly weaponry. Their pole-arms bristled as if the street was a giant beast whose fur was on edge.

Their opponents? Pip's and Seth's allies – if the term could be applied so loosely – appeared around the corner.

The Third Regiment. Drua's Dervishes. Every time Pip was forced to deliver orders to her, it set his primaries on edge. _They always muttered about fletching their arrows..._

'Everybeast in their proper place,' according to General Lock. General Scott received the competent folk, the soldiers that did their duty. Drua got the crazies, the beasts that won the battles for her, but left her a wreck, if the claw marks in her table were any indication.

The rest of them went to Steep. The Pips and Seths of the Empire.

"They look like insects from up here," the bird muttered, shaking his beak. "They always seem less significant from above."

"That's because they are," the marten replied. He reached over and caught a pinch of snuff between his paws, bringing it to his nose and inhaling sharply. "Ahh... They're all insects."

Pip eyed his compatriot again, his beak held closed as he contemplated the noble. "Your father provides the major funding for this war, doesn't he?"

The Prince took a sip of brandy, studiously ignoring his avian neighbor.

"Look, let's pretend for a moment that I'm your inferior and you'd love to brag to me. Shouldn't be too hard."

"What do you mean _pretend_? You _are_ inferior." The marten paused and took another sip of whiskey and then shrugged. "But I suppose it can't hurt. Yes, my family is indeed one of the largest backers of this obscene little circus. Waste of time and money if you ask me."

"And your farmland, if I'm not mistaken, is some of the poorest."

"Is it? I suppose Father complains enough about it for that to be true. Always going on bout yield and profit. Says the same thing about 'bonds', too, as if they were the same as plants and such." He took another drink. "Ye fates! They just cut that rat's tail off! That sod'll need an expert surgeon to sew that back on. Don't these beasts have anything better to do than hack each other to bits? It's disgusting!"

_The booze is loosening him up._ "Pity, then, that you're stuck out here with all that fortune back home. Bet you hope this war goes well." The bird gave the tin a curious look and snagged it with his beak. He eyed the contents warily.

"Hmm? Oh I suppose. I don't really care one way or another. Here, have a sniff. You'll _love_ it."

Pip dipped his beak into the tin, but his nostrils were too high. Giving a little huff – which sent a cloud of dust about his face – the bird backed out, dipped his beak into a glass of brandy and took a mouthful. He then went back to the dip and set a small pinch into his cheek. It burned for a moment, then the brandy dulled it.

Immediately, his head began to swim, and a lead weight settled in his gut. _This must be what eggs feel like in the belly... cor._

That last sentiment was too good to keep silent, he felt. "Cor."

"Featherweight." Seth chuckled at his pun.

Pip spat out the sodden snuff-ball and shook his beak. It was itching. Burning. It--

"Oh, I forgot to mention, it can sting a little if you've never used it."

Pip clawed at his beak. His eyes were watering and he couldn't focus. In desperation, he aimed a kick at the bottle of brandy. The first attempt missed, hitting a shade from his blurred vision. His next try, however, gave it a glancing blow. Golden liquid poured to the carpet, and Pip inserted himself below the stream, muttering a stream of curses, even as the alcohol cleansed his mouth. "Fates accursed whelp."

The brandy cooled the fire in his mouth. A kick from the marten cooled the bird's temper.

A whoosh of air and Pip crumpled to the floor in a gasping heap. "How dare you, you insignificant bit of food! You're lucky to even have the privilege of speaking to me! In fact, don't. You're not worth my time."

Like a caught fish, Pip gaped on the floor, willing his lungs to expand again. A slight croak escaped, "... coming."

"I _said_," this was emphasized with another kick, "not to speak to me. Does Steep kick you around like this too or is it just me? Little bootsniffer, I bet your bloody papers won't help you much when she finds out you nicked her booze."

He paused mid-kick. Even Seth could hear the banging from the floor below. The victorious group had entered the tavern.

_He's my charge..._ The bird fought every instinct. His entire being and a lifetime of training screamed to flee to the air, to allow its wispy thermals to carry him far from the blood and fur and fear that was coming in from the street below. _He deserves it. His father helped perpetuate this mindlessness, but..._

Pip stepped in front of the marten and pushed them against the wall, spreading his wings over the pair, his mottled winter plumage obscuring them slightly against the dark wood grain. Eyes closed, the sounds of the troop below ascending to their hideout echoed about him. Hot, mustelid breath blew in his face, stinking up his muzzle.

And even then, Lord Prince couldn't keep his milksopping muzzle shut. "I know I said I could eat you up... but I didn't mean it like that."

The plover gave him a sharp peck. "Quiet! They might ignor--"

It had opposite the desired effect. Seth shoved the bird away, giving a holler of pain and stepping to one side, holding his ear and hiding the pinprick of blood that emerged. "Curse you to hellgates, you dirty, _common, _bird!"

As Pip struggled to regain his balance, he heard a sharp whistle from the doorway. His head jerked up. A dozen beasts were staring at them.

They weren't in southern uniform.

"Fool! Run!" The bird was already mid-stride as he threw his meager weight against Seth, sending them both stumbling away, toward the window.

He never heard crashing glass.

He never felt the rush of upper winds catching his primaries.

He didn't feel anything.

It was a sharp pain, the blow to his back.

He heard, as if from across a tunnel. "Looks like this'n has orders, sir. And hang my mother's garters if th' other isn't a nobbie."

"Wouldn't hang her garters fer--"

The voices faded. His back stung. He tasted dust from the carpet.

The world went dark and cold.


	11. Sic Temper Tyrannis

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 10. Sic Temper Tyrannis**

_by Soriss_

Soriss hated fairy tales. He felt deceived every time he heard one. They began with the promise of being about an ordinary beast -- which was way underdone, in Soriss's opinion -- but in the end, the hero or heroine turned out be quite the opposite.

Still, every time he heard the words "once upon a time," he was drawn in like a roach to his traps, eyes dulled by the sing-song voice of the storyteller. Then the dreaded "and they lived happily ever after" assaulted his ear holes, and he felt his blood warm of its own accord. Nobeast lived happily ever after! Not even the Emperor himself.

If _he_ ever told a story, it would be about an ordinary creature -- one who managed adequately ever after.

It would look nothing like this moment in his life.

Clutching his knives against his chest, Soriss puttered around the galley, trying to decide what to save. With the sudden wind that had sprung up, the ship was moments from sinking, if he knew anything about boats. Which he didn't, come to think of it.

The _Stormchaser_ rocked violently, and a frying pan fell from its nook to clang against his skull. The monitor's jaw went slack, and he collapsed in the corner. _Beetlesss,_ he thought. _I'll losse the ssilverware._

After a few moments of blissful paralysis, Soriss sat up, rubbing his head. The ship shuddered, making his insect traps dance a jig under the counter. His tongue flicked out sadly. This was war. He couldn't save the traps.

The spectacled face he so feared peered into the galley. "We're docking. I suggest you get dressed and come up on deck," Kriley said. He peered over his glasses. "Grab a weapon and make yourself useful."

Soriss hissed at the rat's shadow as the door clicked shut. He managed to wobble towards the exit, snatching his pristine cook's jacket off its hook and swinging it on over his shoulders. His knives tucked safely into the sleeves, he put his claws on the knob and tugged.

Soriss later swore that the massive wave giggled as it bounded over the listing _Stormchaser's_ prow and dove into the galley. The lizard barely had time to hold his breath before he was caught up in the return motion; he flailed his stubby arms, then realized he was endangering his knives and tucked them against his sides. He at last bobbed to the surface and was snagged by Wazzock and the friendly lookout Sunyl as the water disappeared over the side.

"Ho, chappie! Come to watch the landing, have you?" As usual, Wazzock was entirely too chipper. Soriss experienced a sudden hypothetical vision of smacking the rat's nose, hard. The monitor almost smacked himself for the thought.

"Kriley ssaid -- " he tried to start.

Wazzock pushed him into Sunyl's paws. "Must help Nemik get things in order. You stay here! Plan our next meeaaalll..." The captain's voice drifted away as he left.

Sunyl moved Soriss to the side. "Heh. Bit of a bad break there, Soriss? Oh..." The fox looked down at her paws. "I -- I think I saw your pots wash overboard."

Soriss felt a deep sadness crest inside his stomach. He quelled it with a soggy biscuit. "Figuresss," he said.

The _Stormchaser's_ prow bucked and tilted as whichever crewbeasts Wazzock had fighting it managed to turn the vessel against the wind. Soriss tipclawed to the railing and clutched it, willing his bad eyes to see the harbor. He scratched at his face. That wasn't -- but it was, a dark red light, like a massive pit of embers, right where Bully Harbour should have been.

Soriss swallowed. Even in his muddled state, he knew three things: the docks were on fire; the _Stormchaser_ was most certainly made of wood; and wood lived to burn.

----

Soriss crouched beside the fire made of splintered timber scraps from the _Stormchaser's_ iceberg escape, spazzing violently from the cold at every other heartbeat. Nearby, the other remaining crewbeasts kept their distance from the fire, some shooting violent looks at the lizard. He ignored them, pulling his blanket tighter; he knew what they wanted, but his insect traps were washed overboard, and his pots were sunk, and there was no way he would cook for anyone. Not right now. Not even to get rid of those -- he shuddered again -- those dirty looks.

The landing had been smooth enough -- for a trip through the shallows in a not-so-shallow ship already half-destroyed by an iceberg. Nemik managed to nose her slowly into the sand a good distance from the silhouettes of the enemy ships, so she stuck firmly and denied the tugging waves. Soriss glanced over his shoulder at the _Stormchaser_. He was glad to be done with boats and storms and 'bergs, and hopefully this land under his claws would become a permanent thing.

Nearby, Wazzock flicked the tip of his muzzle absently, keeping his back pressed against the smoke-smeared wall. He motioned Soriss over. "Soriss, m'scaled chappy."

"Captain, ssir." Soriss gave the flames a longing stare before inching over to the rat.

Despite his sodden fur, Wazzock looked serene. "I've got a plan. It involves espionage, treading lightly, and generally sneaking around quiet-like. Oy, Krill!"

Kriley held up a claw, proceeded to hack up a combination of phlegm and water, and then sidled over. "Yes, sir."

"We need to infiltrate the attacking forces. Find a way to blend in."

Kriley's eyes lit up. "Uniforms."

"Right! Good chap."

Soriss kept his mouth clamped shut to prevent his chattering jaw from unhinging.

"So. Nemik knows his way around here; he can tell us where some decent uniforms would be found." Wazzock's tail curled. "I _do_ look quite dashing in a common uniform. Soriss! You'll be acting captain, in case we run into any of the enemy. I'll take the position of second mate, and Kriley, you can be...the cook!" The captain clutched his stomach and chortled. "Aaahaha, but you'd make a horrible cook. Would you boil krill? Oh dear me. Here, Soriss, give him your knives. Must give him the air of professionalism."

Soriss's eyes bugged out. He gripped the comfortable weight of the cleaver and the serrated knife strapped on his back.

"You can do that for me, right, matey?" Wazzock's ears lifted hopefully.

Clacking his claws against each other, the monitor swallowed. No, in fact, he could not act as a _leader_. No, in fact, he could not give his precious knives to the one creature in his crew who was constantly irritated at him.

"Yesss, ssir. Of coursse," he said, and dipped into an awkward bow.

"Dress appropriately next time," Kriley muttered, his eyes slitting as he retreated into the shadows.

Soriss sighed inwardly. "Yesss, ssir."

"You could, in fact, don garb more befitting of your rank," Wazzock said with the faintest hint of a smile. From beside him, he produced his navy jacket, white vest, and a pair of dark pants.

Soriss held the pants gingerly between claws. "Ssir..."

"Oh, right, the tail. Well then!" And Wazzock stuck his claws into the rear seam and ripped.

----

The pants flopping underclaw, Soriss stumbled through the charred ruins, looking left occasionally as Nemik silently pointed out landmarks. The crew, staying mellow enough, followed behind. The monitor felt his spine crawl.

If it wasn't enough to be away from warmth of any kind, and be kept from sleep at this horrible hour, he had to lead this motley parade as if he knew what he was doing. The clink of his knives, roughly lashed to Kriley's belt, as the rat jogged behind him reminded Soriss of the humiliation of handing them over.

But, Wazzock was happy. Whistling tunelessly, even. The relative peace fallen over Soriss's superiors was enough to make him breathe easy. No more irritation at him, and no one else's life ruined by his ineptitude.

The round rock nearly tripped him, but he had his wits about him enough to give it a coconutters' kick, launching it into the darkness. Wazzock gave a low whistle. "Nice shot!"

There was no crunch of timber where it landed, only a soft thud and a squeak.

Soriss winced. Kriley swore under his breath. "Hellgates! You've hit something!" He swatted at the air. "Do you _want_ them down on our heads, lizard?"

Wazzock's voice rose above the others'. "All right, split up -- Krill, take Sunyl and Squad Alpha to the armory and get those uniforms. Nemik, you and I'll take Squad Beta and spread out to cover your backs. Soriss!"

"Ssir?" The monitor saluted with a shaking claw. He could hear the muffled groans of whatever beast he'd hit; every moan made him wince.

"Tend to that creature. See if you can't ply them for something useful. Oh, and -- find us all something to eat, eh? Off now, chap!"

The rat and his crew disappeared, leaving Soriss standing in the dark. He looked down at himself. Wazzock's shirt was stretched over his stomach, and he could see the ends of the pants flopping loosely past his feet. With a snarl, Soriss tore off the pants and threw them into the muddy slush. The shirt and jacket followed shortly.

Soriss began to run, but a thought struck him. If Wazzock ever wanted to wear that uniform again...he winced. What if the captain grew angry? It was unbearable. Besides, a cold Primary wind nipped through his scales.

Spurting wet snow, the lizard whirled around and bent to retrieve the clothes. His claw slipped into the tear where his tail had been. Ah, but that would be an easy fix, so long as somebeast around here was civilized enough to keep a needle and thread handy. He draped the shirt and jacket over his shoulders and tied the pants around his middle.

The groaning grew louder. Soriss's beady eyes scoured the darkness. There it was -- a big-eared head poking above some fallen timbers. He dropped to all fours and scuttled the last few steps.

"Sso ssorry about all thisss...oh dear, ma'am, I wasss only trying to avoid tripping... Can you ssit? Sstand?" He crouched over his victim, wringing his claws, then gently helped her to a sitting position.

"Oww! Oh, m' 'ead!"

Soriss helped her lean against a still-standing wall and tried to see where the head wound was. "Where doesss it hurt?"

"'ere," the rat said, pointing. She blinked up at him. "Er, are ya wi' th' Imperial folk? ...Sir," she added quickly.

Soriss scratched the back of his neck, feeling frozen scales flake away. _Dependsss..._ "Doessn't matter, misss. Let'sss get you taken care of there."

He scooped her up and cradled her against his chest. She was shivering, though probably not entirely from the cold. Soriss felt his heart sink. He simply didn't have the necessary bandages or ointments to give her the treatment she needed. A great guilt-stone settled in his stomach.

The rat's eyes widened, and she started to claw at his arms. "Ya shouldn't be 'ere! Ya've got t' 'ide, quick-like!"

The monitor snarled to himself, continuing to put on a voice of concern for the rat and gripping her tighter as he ducked past charred buildings. "But your _head_, ma'am -- it'sss terribly important that you sstay sseated and sstop moving! You're going to ssuffer ssomething much worsse than -- "

He froze as the strange whisper overhead became a hiss, and the moon was obscured in slivers of moving death.


	12. Mortal Kombat

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 11. Mortal Combat  
**

_by Lock_

The well trodden and bloodied snow was subjected to yet another torrent of paws beating upon it as the Fogeys charged the road. The distant flames from the docks still managed to create a red sheen on their blades, giving the impression of a wave of fire surging towards the captured prison. Crying vows of allegiance to their Emperor, the beasts had strict orders not to cede another square inch of the Slups to the insidious Southern Army. Indeed, they seemed a nigh on unstoppable force as they crossed the width of the street, descending upon the garrison like a dreadnought.

Whereupon they were mowed down by a hail of arrows and rocks slung from the ramparts of the seized prison, killing the attackers almost to a beast.

Looking down at the fresh corpses accumulating in the street below, Lock nodded in approval. "Things seem to be going well, Klist."

A weasel with an eyeless, bleeding socket shouldered his bow and grinned at the General. "Oh, thankee, sir!" He seemed genuinely flattered that the fox had actually given him a compliment. "Not certain how good this place was for keeping beasts in, but it's a dandy at keeping 'em out!"

Klist's optimism was refreshing, especially after the near catastrophe of the landing had most officers acting like they had already lost the battle. Lock sneered at the memory of so many slack-jawed imbeciles doing their best to subtly hint the day was lost. Certainly, things were touch and go at first, when the docks were set alight and hampered any effective concentration of the army. Thankfully, the bridgehead had done its work, fighting for its ground against the Imperial forces, giving Lock enough time to send reinforcements to the front and turn the tide. The General had almost felt inclined to retract his ill will towards Captain Steep in exchange for holding the line and staving off disaster.

Then, he learned that Captain Steep was nowhere to be found, and hadn't been at her command post for much of the fighting at all. The General was now inclined to issue a flogging sentence.

Lock grimaced as an icy wind decided it could find no better target than the back of his neck. Wishing had thought to bring a scarf, he sullenly shoved his chilly paws into his coat pockets. No wonder the Slups district was considered undesirable: its low ground level offered no protection from the sea winds and all their bitterness. Seeing that the weasel had noticed him shiver, Lock offered the faintest of smiles to show he was not ill. "I almost regret our success, Captain. It may have been warmer on the beaches."

Klist chuckled. "We can't help ourselves winning, General, not with fine ol' troops like these." The twang of a bow interrupted the officers' conversation, diverting their attention to the arching arrow which found its mark in a rat on the streets below. Nodding in approval, Klist acknowledged the successful archer. "Fine shot there, Brazfang, right on the button!"

A young rat smiled as he saluted. "Ah, thanks for noticin', sir," he said, walking further down the ramparts in search for more targets.

Winking to indicate his point was made, Klist leaned against the ramparts, looking out at the sky-line of the ramshackle Slups. "You can bet that Lady Luck is on our side, t'be sure. No other explanation for it."

The tone in Lock's voice was colder than any winter wind. "How odd. I don't recall any beast named Lady Luck being within my vicinity during my planning sessions. You'd think I would have noticed."

"Oh, it's just a figure of..."

"I think," Lock interrupted, "you'll find that the reason we have had success in creating and holding our current line is due to our enemy spreading themselves too thin over too wide a front, enabling our concentrated army to punch through the thinly held Slups district and fortifying our position before any effective counter attack could be organized." The naval bombardment of the Barracks on the southernmost tip of the Harbour and the feint towards the middle Trenches by Regiment 5 had paid dividends. "Now, don't you find that a far more satisfying explanation as to why we're persevering than trusting in Luck?"

Klist wilted underneath the General's condescending stare. "Very good, sir."

_Luck. Honestly._ Lock resented any supernatural force taking claim for what he had done. If Luck wanted to get a place in his official report, she could come over to the front line and grab a spear.

Content that things were currently under control here, the General used the height advantage of the roof to survey the rest of his battlefield. From a bird's view, the field of action resembled a kind of triangle, with the Southern Line forming the base, flanked by the two main roads leading to the apex of Market Square. A jagged line of buildings and shacks made up the Southern Front, cutting the Slups in half vertically, though the unkempt buildings made it difficult to see exactly what was happening at any given sector.

A wind from the north brought muffled yells and clinking steel as it passed over the prison rooftop. Lock frowned, barely being able to make out the shapes of charging beasts and flying arrows occurring further down the line. "That should be near Captain Terion's unit," he estimated aloud.

"I do believe so, sir," Klist affirmed, squinting his single eye in an attempt to single out where the fighting was. "Looks like a right spat in all. Think Voss's minions have a chance?"

"Hm," was the only commitment Lock gave to the situation. "I'd better have a look myself. Will you be requiring anything else, Captain Klist?"

"If you keep me in ammunition, I'll be able to hold this place 'til the end of the world, General."

"I shall see to it." It was about time some beast in this army developed fighting spirit. Half of the officer corps lived in mortal fear of getting a splinter.

At ease as he left Klist and his soldiers, leering over the ramparts in hope of more target practice, Lock's stomach suddenly felt uneasy upon encountering his own personal enemy: the flight of stairs leading out the back of the prison and into the alley. The fox snarled, testing the top steps with his wooden leg. The sooner ramps became more commonplace in the world, the happier General Lock would be. And of _course_ there were patches of ice on some of the steps. Making sure that the garrison was focused on the battle and not on him, he placed his wooden leg firmly on the first step and lifted his weight forward.

The wood slipped on a bit of ice, and the fox came very close to sharing his conditioned brain with the concrete, flying over the first few steps. Grabbing onto a guardrail before contact with the ground, he clung on to it like a kitten with a string, not letting go until he was certain the ground had stopped moving.

Knuckles white, Lock slid slowly down the rest of the stairs, feeling slightly shaky upon connecting with the ground. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. It would be unseemly to be found dead in a back alley, killed by a nefarious flight of stairs, during the middle of a perfectly good battle. The paintings of his death would be less then flattering.

The good thing about having a front line consisting of buildings was that the back alleys formed a perfect communication link. Limping along the cobblestone, Lock surveyed his army holding their ground against the increasingly feeble Imperial assaults. All apprehension Lock had that morning faded with each victorious Southern shout. Things were running smoothly for once.

Even the heated battle at what used to be a crab apple orchard, so worrisome from atop the prison, was turning out to be in Lock's favour. Some distance behind the fighting, a male pine marten, the epitome of calmness during a storm, stood watching as his regiment not only beat back an Imperial sortie, but were pushing further into the enemy lines. He regarded the approaching fox with a nod, more concerned with the battle. "General Lock."

"Captain Terion." The fox was more than willing to overlook the lack of saluting in exchange for Terion actually pressing an attack. "What's your situation?"

Without changing the speed or tone of his voice, the marten explained. "Things were steady, as far as defending the orchard went. Then a quarter of an hour ago, business picked up. The Imperials started hammering my regiment."

The green uniformed Southerners, currently pushing the few remaining, haggard-looking Imperials out of the orchard and into the street, indicated that this "hammering" did not have the desired effect. "What changed?"

"We're not certain, sir. A few of the prisoners we took mentioned something about a hook pawed stoat telling them that if they didn't hit us with everything they got, she'd... oh, how'd it go...? 'She would open a new branch of maggot hotels.'"

"How colourful."

"Hm. At any rate, they were too under strength to really do us any damage, so after they tired themselves out, I ordered an advance. It seems to have paid off."

Terion's estimate was conveniently proven accurate. "They're running!" Whoever had yelled must have had an impressive voice, as his news echoed from the front, accompanied by images of Imperial vermin disappearing quickly behind the shoddy buildings.

Strangely, the next "They're running," came from further north of the orchard, and a third sounded from near the prison. Soon the cry was accosting Lock from all sides.

"They're falling back." Good. The sooner Lock could get out of these infernal Slups, the better the fight would seem.

The marten grinned. "I didn't think I had done that well."

The fox missed an opportunity to allow his subordinate to feel overly accomplished. "You didn't. The Guard have been assaulting our position since noon, and it is now roughly half past two. Having bled themselves white, they are now falling back to reassemble and likely switch over to the defensive."

Terion sighed. "Very good, sir. Shall we keep up the assault?"

"No. I want to wait for the reports from the flanks. Major Darcy should be back soon..."

"Oh, I'm here, sir!" In a rather undignified manner, the General stumbled forward in shock, completely surprised by the appearance of the spectacled rat next to him. "I've been here for a few minutes, but you seemed busy, so I thought I ought not..."

"Major Darcy," Lock interrupted, fists clenched. "From now on, announce your presence at all times and refrain from sneaking up behind me." Darcy, nervous at having spooked his General, nodded hurriedly, as if his visible acquiescence was more important than giving Lock news. "The reports, Major."

"Oh, right!" Taking a map of Bully Harbour out of his tote bag, the rat spread the parchment out upon the ground. "Er, Captain Helmsly, over here on the south road, he says that he's secured the flank, and, since no beast was looking threatening, has taken the liberty of procuring some 'hostage pieces of art' from one of the museums."

"Lovely," groaned Lock. "I'm so pleased to know that a good portion of my army have been broadening their minds instead of actually fighting."

"I'm glad you're taking it well. I was worried you'd be upset."

"That was sarcasm, Major Darcy."

"Oh. Um, well, Captain Redmond, over on the north road, he's still having some fighting to do. The Guard found themselves a ditch and a few stone walls, and it's been a nightmare trying to drive them out."

The General rubbed his chin. "With a mass retreat going on, I suspect Redmond should have smooth sailing shortly." Which meant that the South would soon have complete control over the two roads aiming like spears at the heart of the Harbour: the Market Square. "All the roads in the city link to this point," he said, pointing at the tiny circle labelled "market." "If we gain control of the Market, we can move freely about the Harbour and crush pockets of resistance at our leisure." How to go about doing it? "Captain Helmsly shall take command over all regiments on the southern flank, form Army Group B, and descend upon the market from the south road, and Captain Redmond shall do the same from the north, forming Group A. We shall catch the market in a pincer." Gesturing towards Terion, Lock added, "Captain Terion, you shall take control over the current line and hold it, in case this retreat is a feint, and notify me if anything violent occurs."

The marten nodded his approval of the plan, and left to reform his own regiment, still at the other end of the orchard. Watching his personal aide roll the map back up, Lock asked, "Has there been any news of Captain Steep?"

Pushing his spectacles back up his nose, the rat shook his head. "Not a thing sir. No one's spotted her."

Sighing heavily, Lock sneered slightly. "She had better have the good sense to have been captured, wounded, or killed, or else Captain Steep will not be _Captain_ Steep much longer." If she was useless to him drunk, she was even more useless when she wasn't even there. "What of that bird we hired for intelligence?"

"No one's seen him either, sir."

Of course. Why would any beast possibly want to do what they were paid for? "Major, why is it that I have both a spy and a bird messenger on my payroll, and yet the only information I am receiving is from you?"

"Um, not certain?" Looking a tad uncomfortable, Darcy asked for his orders. When told he was to tell both Captains Redmond and Helmsly of the plan, his shoulder's sunk. "That's... an awful lot of running, sir."

Lock considered. "Perhaps. Yes, you're right. You're not in the best of shape, and it's likely it would take too long to reach both Captains. I shall see Captain Redmond myself."

The fox tried to become used to that annoying gape that Major Darcy did whenever Lock expressed intent to actually move. "Are you certain, sir? What with you down with the..."

"If you intend to end that sentence with something regarding my health, Major, you will find yourself being greeted in the future as _Sergeant_ Darcy. Am I understood?"

"Very good, sir," Darcy hastily said, scurrying away before finding himself jobless.

With Darcy, officers, and sounds of battle having left him, Lock had hoped the stupid wind would have decided to find others to bother as well. Hunching his neck to lessen the effect of an icy gust, the fox limped back to the alley behind the orchard.

Kicking aside an empty bottle, Lock ignored the claustrophobic feeling of the alley, staring straight ahead as he pressed northwards. _Everything going smoothly now_, he thought to himself. _Hard to believe it had nearly gone so wrong. The Imperials are on the run. All that's needed is for Helmsly and Redmond to finish the job..._ Strangely, a image of the rat jumped from the fox's mind and appeared on the road next to him. "Captain Redmond, your orders are to attack the Market." Why had he said that aloud just now... It felt like Redmond was right there. Must have imagined it...

He paused, blinking at the strange cobblestone road, flanked by faceless buildings. Was he headed north? What an asinine question, of course he was! There was only one way to go in this alley. But it felt like going someplace else... hadn't he been in this alley earlier in the day? Was he still there? It didn't look any different... maybe he had dreamt it... Best keep going...

Where _was_ he?

An alley, a voice told him, but really, it didn't look like an alley at all. At least, he didn't think so, but then, he couldn't remember off-hand what an alley looked like. This place was all fuzzy. There were shapes and colors, but there was no meaning attached to them. Brown blurs and grey lines hovered before him, but he didn't know what they were. He tried moving forward, but his paws were only connected with grey clouds.

Everything went black...

When Lock awoke, he was staring up at a white sky, still daylight. He was lying in the same alley he had been walking through before, and a thin layer of snow had accumulated on his face. He was still alone.

The only question he could not answer was how long he had been out.

Grabbing hold of a nearby crate, Lock heaved himself back to his feet, brushing the snow off of his coat. Confident that most of the grime was off, he glimpsed over his shoulder. No one was there. No one had seen him faint.

The General sighed in relief. Everything was all right, then. When had he passed out...? everything seemed fuzzy

Taking a few ginger steps to make sure the ground wasn't going to move again, Lock continued his walk down the alley. Before long, he could hear the odd cry and echo of some fight. The alley vanished, and the fox saw the flags of regiments, the sight of green uniforms, and the entirety of Army Group A.

He also saw them going in entirely the wrong direction, pushing further north into Zann's Backyard instead of down the road towards the Market.

If fainting made Lock annoyed, this made him livid. What were they _doing_? This wasn't part of the plan at all! "Captain Redmond!" he hollered over the din. "Captain Redmond, report!"

He eventually located the rat standing, ironically, on the edge of the very road he was supposed to be moving down. Redmond's eyes perked up at the General's approach, and he saluted smartly. "General Lock, sir! We have sent the foebeast scattering back. Just doing some clean up now."

If he was expecting a compliment for his exertions, he was gravely disappointed. "What part of 'Attack the Market Square' did you not understand, Captain?!"

The stunned blinking of Captain Redmond did not improve Lock's mood. "I... I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what you're talking about."

Doing his best not to fire the Captain on the spot, Lock replied through gritted teeth. "I gave the orders to move on Market Square more than half an hour ago, and yet here I find you on a joy ride against a minor target, and I would like to know why!`

Redmond glanced over at a few aides, who shrugged in confusion. "I didn`t receive any such orders, sir."

Lock's stomach felt uneasy. "But..." The words trailed off in his mouth, and the stares he was receiving did nothing to increase his confidence. "But I distinctly recall telling you to attack the Market, shortly after half-past-two."

The fox's dread was confirmed by the Captain's reply. "Sir, it's three now, and I haven't seen you since this morning." Lock glanced at the aides for support, but their faces bore the same confusion as Redmond.

Not wanting to hear the inevitable inquiries as to whether or not he was feeling all right, Lock mumbled, "Captain Redmond, retract your forces from their current skirmishing and head down this road to assault the Market Square."

Vaguely hearing a "Very good, sir," Lock limped to an overturned apple cart on the side of the road and leaned against it. _The orders hadn't arrived._ Drumming his claws on the wooden crate, the fox started to tear out splinters with his nervous tapping. He didn't like failure, and he especially hated it failure when it was his...

Refusing to finish the thought, Lock breathed into his chilly paws. He didn't like failing.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Darcy's unexpected appearance once again caused Lock to jump. "Confound it, Major Darcy, I told you to stop sneaking up on me!"

"I thought you could see me!" the rat protested.

"From now on, approach me directly with my line of sight and not from any other angle, do you understand?"

Slightly peeved, Darcy nodded in assent. "Yes, sir. At any rate, I gave Captain Helmsly your order, but I had to stop for a quick breather, otherwise I'd have been here sooner." Blinking, the rat seemed to only just realize that Army Group A had made no progress at all. "Er, why is Captain Redmond still here, sir?"

"A few logistical issues, all solved now," Lock explained, taking Darcy by the arm. "Things will be moving shortly."

"What kind of issues?"

"Let us survey Captain Helmsly's front, Major, I'm curious to see what progress he's made." The last thing Lock wanted was for Darcy to be given any more reasons to inquire whether or not Lock was feeling well.

~

Lock had expected, or at least hoped, to have found Helmsly's wing to be plowing through enemy troops, securing the market area, or at least giving the pretence of doing something. He had not expected to find one third of his army relatively idle, their road blocked only by a rickety barricade thrown together of what market paraphernalia could be scraped together and shoved in between a stone arch way. Furthermore, Captain Helmsly himself standing at the back of the ranks, pondering a marble statue of a wolf fighting a shark.

A heavy breath, which ended with a growl, was more than enough indication to Major Darcy to mind his distance from the General.

The group of soldiers who saw the tumultuous thundercloud limping towards their Captain scrambled to their paws, remembering they had some other pressing chore, leaving Helmsly to his own devices. For the wildcat's part, he remained perfectly calm, assessing the statue's worth until the high ranking hurricane was standing directly before him. "Ah, General Lock. As you can see, I've secured the road and have left no foe standing."

"All I can see," yelled the General, causing even some troops at the front line to turn around, "is one third of my army doing a wonderful impression of stuffed dummies, with only a few barrels of pickled herring in their way, while you seem more concerned in persuing an art gallery instead of doing your job!"

Even the snowflakes falling to the ground made more noise than the awkward silence following this outburst. "General Lock, please try to stay calm," Major Darcy mumbled in the fox's ear. "We don't want you to hurt something."

"I won't be the one hurting, I assure you," growled Lock, his shoulders heaving as he tried to quell his pounding temples. Slowing his breathing back to a semi-regular state, he composed himself well enough to address the Captain in a less heated fashion. "Captain Helmsly, I gave you orders to take the Market Square, and provided you with ample force with which to carry this order out. And yet here I find you not taking the Market, not coming to grips with the defenders, and not doing much of anything at all. Would you kindly explain why?"

The cat still seemed like he'd rather be looking at his statue, his tone of voice slightly disinterested and unfazed by his superior's outburst. "I'm afraid you've come in at precisely the wrong time, sir," he remarked, wondering whether or not it was real marble, or just a clever forgery.

"Is that a fact?"

"It is. You see, upon receiving your orders, we did descend upon this place with all speed. Unfortunately, only so many can go down the road at one time, and we wound up bumping our heads, so to speak, on those 'barrels of herring' as you say."

Glancing over at the barricade, Lock still couldn't see much else other than piles of barrels, some carts, and what looked like a pole with an eagle carved into it. A few hammer blows could demolish the whole pile, by the looks of it. "I fail to see how a junk sale could give you such pause."

"It didn't, at first, and I had my leading regiments attack it. I still don't think it has too many Imperials behind it. All things considered, it didn't look like I would need the entirety of my force at all."

His ire lessened after learning Helmsly at least tried, Lock was still unsatisfied. "And?"

Sighing because he couldn't get back to deciding whether it was art or not, the Captain gestured over at the blocked road. "And they beat us back."

As there was a distinct lack of torch-carrying wolverines lurking atop the stone arch or a flying legion of eagles guarding from above, Lock wasn't certain he understood. "What do you _mean_ they beat you back?"

"I'm still not certain of the details, sir, other than every time we got to the wall, whoever was on the other side beat us back. Some of the reports mention something about a stoat with a hook paw, who apparently accounted for at least ten deaths, possibly more. It's assumed she's the one in charge."

Her again. Lock felt his stomach tighten. The docks, the Slups, and now here. He pawed the hilt of his sword as he peered over at the barricade, as if his eyes could pierce the barrels. "That stoat," he mumbled, "is driving me mad."

Captain Helmsly raised his eyebrows. "Sir?"

"You are forgiven, Captain Helmsly." How could one blasted female be causing him so much trouble?

"Apology accepted," the cat grinned. Even his self satisfaction evaporated as soon as Lock's steely eyes shot daggers into his skull.

"I forgave your shortcomings, Captain. I did _not_ apologize."

Helmsly opened his mouth, but found no other words except, "Very good, sir."

Turning his attention back to the barricade, Lock fell silent, placing his paws behind his back. The silence of the battlefield was graveyard-esque, even with the real struggle not having taken place yet. In the distance, a few shouts and other white noise still echoed throughout the Harbour. "What are your orders, sir?" Darcy finally ventured.

Wishing he had some way of knowing how fast Redmond was heading down the opposite road, Lock decided to gamble. "If the northern wing is on schedule, we should have the Market in between our pincer within a few minutes." Blinking, he nodded affirmatively. "Captain Helmsly, organize your units and prepare to attack."

Helmsly coughed into his paw. "Doesn't that seem a bit premature, sir? Ought we not wait until Redmond actually arrives?"

"Contrary to popular belief, Captain, it is possible to act without waiting for the stars to align. If we can keep the Market defenders focused on our front, then Redmond may find the northern tip weakened, and will break the enemy line with ease." Having explained himself, Lock was annoyed that five seconds had passed, and Helmsly was still in front of him. "I don't believe 'just stand there' was part of my orders, Captain Helmsly."

The cat shrugged, saluted, and went to see that the preparations for attack were sent. Troops started to move and life began to come back into the Army. The sweat from his exertions began to emphasize the winter temperature, and Lock placed his paws back in his pockets. His leg and back were sore.

Darcy showed signs of psychic ability. "Sir, you've been doing more running around today than you should. Could you please sit down for at least a minute?"

"Sitting down while the soldiers are standing up would give a bad impression, Major."

"I'm certain no one would mind, sir. Everyone knows you're under the weather..."

Darcy's voice trailed off as Lock turned on him. "I am _not_ under the weather." A pause. "Who thinks I'm sick?"

"Er, well, it's not that serious. I mean, I'm sure not everybeast is talking about it. Why, I'll bet most everybeast is feeling a bit sickly..."

Gritting his teeth, Lock didn't even have the heart to mention Darcy's dithering. "What's taking Helmsly so long?" he mumbled, diverting his attention back to the barricade and the massing troops. He was perfectly fine. And he certainly didn't need to sit down.

A salvo of arrows arched over the barricade, delivering a rain of death onto a few unlucky troops near the front. At least that was going as planned. The volume and firing rate of defending missiles upon Helmsly's forces indicated that whoever was behind those barrels was definitely focused on the foe in front of them. The sting of the bees awoke the sleeping lion as the incensed Southerners retaliated with gusto, charging the barricade en masse. Any attempts at unit organization forgotten as the attackers dissolved into one green tidal wave.

"We really must increase unit discipline," said Lock as he watched. "We can't be losing control of our own forces like this."

"Yes, sir. At least they're attacking now, though."

"Indeed."The General was reluctant to admit Helmsly's hesitance with too much credit, but it was true the Southern attackers were having more difficulty than expected. The cramped width of the street provided a smaller front, not allowing the weight of numbers to be fully utilized. The Imperials behind the stone arch were proving formidable as well, fighting staunchly against overwhelming odds. Any attempts at scaling the barricade or the wall were beaten off with spears. "Don't scale it, just knock it down," the fox growled as another sortie over barrels and carts failed.

"I think some beast's caught on to that idea, sir." Darcy's estimation proved correct. Some officer, unidentifiable amidst the battle, had managed to assemble enough soldiers to grab a fallen stone pillar, found off the corner of a wrecked building, and were carrying it lengthwise. Signaling for beasts to get out of the way, the makeshift battering ram charged into the barricade with tremendous speed.

In an explosion of splinters, dust, and arrow heads, the barricade broke with impressive destruction. Every piece of wood which had made it seemed obligated to either be broken or fall over, with the same effect occurring to the Imperials who had manned the pile. As the shattered works finally ceased their clattering on the stone pavement, the air was dominated by battle cries and pounding foot-paws.

Curiously, however, the sound was not currently emanating from the Southerners in front of the now defunct barricade, but from slightly further north of the Market Square. "Redmond made it, then" said Lock, relieved that things, for the first time that day, had actually gone as planned.

Now that the two wings of the army had zeroed in on the Harbour's roadway hub, the giant pincer looked to cut the Imperial lifeline. No longer hampered by indecision, both groups surged into the Market Square, leaving General Lock and Major Darcy the only beasts in the area standing outside of the town center. "I think that went rather well, don't you, Major?"

"Very good, sir."

"The time, Major?"

"Uh, it's about mid-afternoon, closing in on evening, sir."

Plenty of time to press home an attack. Smiling as an artist does after finishing a particularly difficult painting, Lock limped down the road towards the wrecked barricade, the rat scurrying behind him.

Things looked to be going smoothly within the Market, too. More open than the claustrophobic Slups, the Southerners could finally be given room to smash the defenders without being inhibited by tight alleys. By the time Lock passed under the stone arch, most of Helmsly's soldiers were pressing further ahead.

Which was almost a pity, given that out of the wreckage of wood and dust squirmed a grimacing female stoat, wearing the uniform of the Stoatorian Guard, who happened to appear almost directly next to Lock.

""Ruddy 'carpenter' my tail! I _told_ that stupid marten that Eagle Pole wouldn't hold the whole termite infested..." As she dusted off her jacket, Lock noticed that one of her paws was replaced by a hook.

The fox smiled. _Who's surprised who?_ "Having trouble?"

With the speed the stoat whipped out her sword and turned on her unwanted guest, it was apparent she had suffered no serious injuries from the barricade's destruction. "Who are ye, foxy? What're ye doing?" she demanded, her nostrils flaring once she saw a hint of green underneath Lock's greatcoat.

"My name is General Lock, commanding officer of the Southern Army of the Vulpinsula. And as of five minutes ago, I'm currently conquering your Harbour."

The stoat opened her mouth to protest the fact, but a quick glimpse at her surroundings, the distinct lack of troops at her immediate disposal, and the sight of Southerners infiltrating her hard-fought defenses seemed to kill the words as they came up her throat. Slightly melancholy as the realization struck her, her sword hung limply by her side. Her sense of loss was almost tragic.

Or at least, it would be, if Lock wasn't taking extreme pleasure in the stoat's loss. "I've been hearing stories about a hook-pawed Captain of the Guard all day. Lighting docks on fires, ruining my plans; you're proving to be a nuisance, Ms...?"

The stoat snapped out of her daze with great speed, sneering at the General. "Gloria Ruston, Captain of the Stoatorian Guard." Raising her hook threateningly, she added, ""And we'll see how ye act as General absent two eyes." A smirk appeared on her face and Lock could tell she was sizing him up. "So, ye didn't take kindly t'my warm welcome, eh? And here was I thinking ye were bringing extra wood t'the campfire." She gestured with her sword toward Lock's wooden leg.

Lock sniffed. "In case you had failed to notice, Captain Ruston, your campfire is no longer of any concern to me or my army. What is my concern is that you decide to stop wasting my time, surrender both yourself and this Harbour, and order an end to hostilities."

""Is that any way t'talk t'a lady, foxy?" said Gloria, raising her sword so the point was level with Lock's chest.

"You, madam, are no lady."

"And _you_, sir, are barely a general," she scoffed. "If the best yer frog-faced emperor can send is a tod-sized cripple, then I think I'll take my chances with the rest of yer twerps."

Lock wanted to leap at the stoat and bite off her ears, but the combination of her sword and his leg made this hope a dream, making the reality even more infuriating. "The only thing worse than being led by a cripple is losing to one, and as I've just reduced you to Captain of Driftwood, I suggest you watch your mouth."

"And _I_ suggest ye run yerself through t'save me and mine the trouble."

What in blazes was wrong with this stoat? Defeat was staring her right in the face and yet she pretended it wasn't there. "I know you to be a poor officer at best, Captain Ruston, but I think having your enemies kill themselves for you is pushing it."

The fox took great pride in wiping the smile off of Gloria's face. "Ye insolent little..."

"Oy! There's one o' them Stoaty Guards!" The officers' conference was interrupted by three Southern soldiers, who, upon spotting Gloria, dropped their armfuls of apprehended spice jars and made a dash for the stoat.

Lock raised an eyebrow, assuming the lip chewing stoat was trying to decide whether to run for it or stick it out. "Surrender now, and I may be able to convince them to not kill you."

Snarling, Gloria took a step back. "I'm not that easy." With a quick swipe of her sword, she batted Lock's wooden leg aside, sending him tumbling to the ground. Sure enough, the soldiers became more concerned with Lock's health, and before the fox could tell them that the first beast to help him up instead of grabbing the stoat would be flogged, the stoat had already disappeared, rendering the order pointless.


	13. For Your Eyes Only

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 12. For Your Eyes Only  
**

_by Sal_

_One day was all it took for the world to fall apart. _

The thought ran rampant through her mind as Sal found herself borne along in the arms of a monitor lizard, seeking shelter from the rain of arrows that heralded the beginning of a battle within the very streets of Bully Harbour.

It was only a few hours ago that she had heard confirmed, from the lips of his own mother, the death of her contact. There was no other beast she trusted now –no other beast Pylaris had told her to entrust with the information she brought to him. To be sure, most of it was minor –the whereabouts late at night of certain officials, the frequency of their meetings, whether there was any sign of manufacturing or construction within an office or a residence.

Yesterday was definitely not minor.

Sal had visited the dove cote as usual, a pawful of reluctantly-saved bread crusts in her bucket as a sop to the winged terrors she looked after as part of her work for her contact. The stout rat was huffing with exertion by the time she'd clambered onto the rooftop, but it was worth it: there was an irate-looking newcomer pecking at the bowl of iced-over water she'd left for the birds.

She offered him a crust. He tried to take her paw with it. Three minutes later Sal had retrieved the small message from the capsule strapped to his leg, at the cost of only a few strands of the mop head.

"Take th' rest, then, ya bad-tempered git o' a wasted dinner!" she'd said, as she pelted him with the remaining contents of her bucket before hitching up her skirts and hopping back to the street below.

The rat was somewhat startled to detect a faint whiff of perfume emanating from the message as it warmed against her fur. Sal had taken it out and sniffed curiously at the neatly-tied piece of parchment.

"'S that Jasmine Allure? Nah, s' more like Odde Tinge. S'not that either, though. Bloomin' odd, it is; reminds me o' that one room at th' Embassy. Back before th' ambassador died an' all th' talk o' war…."

Sal had been quite curious as to the contents of the message, but she had to keep Pylaris' trust. He deserved it.

But that was before she knew he was dead.

_Y~ meet me in the B~ after the S~ lands. All my love. See you soon. ~R_

She'd sat there on her cot for a good fifteen minutes, her whiskers twitching, as she tried to decipher it. But her eyes kept coming back to one sentence that was perfectly clear.

"All my love."

The 'B' had to be the Bilge. The only other option was the Barracks, and that was hardly the place for a clandestine meeting. And that was all Sal needed to decide to visit the Bilge, if only to see just what sort of creature sent perfumed love-notes to Pylaris. But she hadn't counted on the invasion occurring that night.

The raging fires no longer burned rampant at the docks. Instead, the stench of scorched fish was added to the miasma of ash, smoke, and snow whipped about by the wind. The Slups were no place to be at a time like this, not with the enemy disembarking onto their newly-captured beachhead at their very doors.

As errant arrows whistled overhead and bloodthirsty shouts echoed down the wintry streets, Sal found herself part of a mass exodus fleeing from the sounds of battle, hindered by the many barricades erected to retard the progress of the invading army. Main thoroughfares were impassable; alleyways were treacherous at best. If she were to be trapped in one....

Besides, she had nowhere to go. And then, there was that matter of the mysterious, perfumed correspondent who would be waiting at the Bilge. If she had to run somewhere, Sal reasoned, at least she could find out who her hypothetical rival for Pylaris' affections was. She might even be able to think of some way to pay back Gloria for her misdeeds.

Sal was awakened from her thoughts as a building collapsed across the street from her, a stray ballista bolt achieving random perfection in its placement. The former condo settled in on itself in a shower of splinters and shreds of wallpaper, an eerie hush descending with the darkness of approaching night. Then, there was a sound of paws, booted and bare, and the clinking of weapons, and tuneless whistling.

Skittering into the ruins of the residence had been an act of instinct. In hindsight, perhaps it was not the best move, but how was she to know the broad-girthed lizard was fond of kicking rocks in the general direction of terrified rat-maids? And she still didn't know whose side he was on. But then, did she know whose side _she_ was on anymore? Her head ached so badly. She had forgotten to put her bucket over it.

A cloud of arrows filled the sky like a family of flies buzzing over days-old fish, and Sal squeaked and thrashed in a vain attempt to extricate herself from the granite-like grip of the monitor.

"Mar'kan's pants, put me down! Don't ya see, we've got t' 'ide!"

Either her words or the hiss of the winged messengers of death finally had their effect, for the lizard made a dash into the nearest building, easily pushing the door open with the application of his scaly shoulder.

"We sshould sstay away from the sshuttersss," the reptile said as he finally set Sal gently to the floor, a slight grimace playing across his face as he stood up and stretched his back. Well, she _knew_ she was no creampuff, but really, he wasn't in any shape himself to complain about things, the rat huffed to herself.

The rat sat up, the paw not maintaining a death-grip on her bucket actively engaged in feeling at the rapidly-growing bump behind her left ear.

"S'okay, ya know," Sal said grudgingly. "No blood an' all. I'll be okay. I'll just grab a pawful o' snow 'ere for th' bump…"

"Not now!" the lizard whispered urgently, pausing in his ransacking of the nearest dresser to point in the direction of the street they'd just come from. The sounds outside were growing ever louder and more militant. Despite her best intentions, Sal found herself drawn to the window, carefully unlatching a shutter to peek outside.

They were in the ground level of a condo with a rather good view of Satire Square. Sal could dimly make out the glow of torches marking the barricade the Unsmudgables had set up to protect the museum and the opera house from the ravages of the intruding barbarians. '

The bladedancers were undoubtedly ready for their foes, but Sal felt a chill roll up her spine as the dull roar coming from the harbour materialized into a menacing wall of flesh. The Southerners advanced towards the barricade, weapons and manic eyes glinting in the light of torches held aloft. At the periphery, a cadre of bowbeasts readied for another command to "Loose!"

"'S too many!" Sal squeaked, before she muffled herself with a paw. But her comment was lost in the pandemonium that ensued when the wave of arrows fell upon the Smudgies. Those beasts that were lucky enough to have anything resembling cover dove under it; those who were not similarly blessed by fate stood stoically, their deaths providing an underscore to their belief in the importance of high culture.

Another wave of arrows, and then the front line of the Southerners encountered the barricades. The results were too horrible to bear viewing.

Sal closed the shutter and sank back against the far wall, wincing at each yell of pain and anguish from the massacre that the Satire Square barricade had become. A few minutes later and all was silent save for the trailing cries of survivors hunted down, and then the creaking of wood as the barricade was dismantled and the Southern Army moved on.

The calm was almost as frightening as the noise of battle had been. Sal felt compelled to say something, anything, to break the hush.

"M'name's Sal. What's yers?" The words sounded inane even to her, but they were all she could think of. The rat stood and started searching about the condo.

"Ssorisss," the lizard answered civilly.

"'S a nice name," Sal said absentmindedly, then squeaked in glee as she pounced on her prey: a brand-new mop in a side-closet. "I dropped mine when ya picked me up," she said. There was no blame in her voice, only happiness at her find. "I wash floors so's important t' 'ave one."

The rat paused and cocked her head at the lizard, sniffing inquisitively.

"What's yer job?"

The monitor examined his claws, frowning as he picked at the dirt underneath.

"I make the delicate morning awakeningsss -- the hearty fillersss of the midday -- the ssweet joysss at the end of the day." Soriss shot her a look, paused, and then said into the long silence, "I cook."

Sal swallowed back the rush of saliva awakened by the thought of food. It had been nearly half a day since she'd had anything to eat.

"What-"

The chit-chat was broken by a horrible sound coming from the steps outside. A death-rattle: the last gasps of a mortally wounded creature. Sal had heard about it from beasts well into their cups in the Bilge, but they hadn't mentioned just how cold it made you feel inside. You were glad to be alive, glad it wasn't you dying in the slush of a Primary evening, but your very bones ached to do something to ease the poor creature's passage.

"Misss, sstay insside!" Soriss hissed, but Sal was already out the door. Hesitantly, the monitor followed, grabbing a pillow from an over-stuffed couch on his way.

A stoat with the unmistakable scent of a Bully Harbour denizen was painfully scrabbling his way up the steps, a dark crimson stain spreading in his wake. The arrow sticking from his side was embedded nearly its entire length; there was no way he could survive much longer. Soriss stooped and placed the pillow under the stoat's torso, allowing him to rest without applying any pressure to the arrow's shaft. Sal quickly knelt and took him by a shoulder, trying to position him so he could breathe more easily. It was a futile task.

"…W-w-weapon," the stoat panted, ruby-tinted blood frothing at his lips. "S-s-s-south wants i-i-it…"

"Shh," Sal said, turning her head aside briefly to wipe a tear on the shoulder of her coat. "Don't talk. Rest yerself."

"M-m-m-minoInn…" the stoat continued as a look of intense concentration appeared on his pain-wracked features. "M-m-must protect it… T-t-tell Lady Ak-k-kilina…"

He coughed horribly, the spasm releasing a fresh gush of blood from his punctured lung. The coughing continued –five, ten, fifteen seconds. Then, he gave a sigh and his face relaxed into the visage of death.

"Fates!" Sal squeaked, tears now spilling unheeded down her whiskers. "'E's dead."

Soriss closed the stoat's eyes with surprisingly gentle claws.

"We sshould cover him," the lizard said. "Keep the gullsss from feassting."

Sal shuddered.

"Yeah, I s'pose we should," she agreed reluctantly. "It don't seem right t' not bury 'im, it don't."

The odd pair of beasts soon returned with a tablecloth from inside their former hiding place, Soriss surreptitiously eyeing the well-equipped kitchen with a hint of longing on his face. With Sal's help, the lizard gently draped the cloth over the inert form. Sal distractedly rubbed at the welt on her noggin as she looked down at what had been, until a few minutes ago, another living, breathing creature. It was the first time she had seen death this close, this random, this…. Brutal. That's what it was: sheer brutality.

"Thanks, Soriss." Sal broke the silence abruptly. "Ya 'elped me first, then 'im." She picked up her mop and bucket. Her stomach rumbled audibly, and the rat hesitated only slightly before asking the first thing that came to mind:

"What d'ya cook?"

Soriss was standing up from the dead body as she asked it. He recoiled and hissed.

"Never flessh!"

Sal's whiskers twitched furiously in embarrassment.

"'S not what I…."

"Everything," the lizard said flatly, but his tail lashed behind him. "Breadsss, ssoupsss, ssaladsss, ssconesss. Whatever they tell me to make." The tension in his shoulders faded. "Ssss. It'sss nothing like culinary sschool."

"Really?" Sal's eyes widened. "I started cleanin' at a cookin' school Th' ol' Culinaria Imperium Artisanal."

"That'sss the very one!" Soriss said, his eyes alight. "It'sss the jewel of the…"

He broke off, his eyes widening as he flung out an arm and pushed Sal behind him. The monitor struck a defensive stance against the scouting party approaching, their Southern-green uniform stained with blood.

"Run, Misss!"


	14. Old Houses Have Secret Rooms

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 13. Old House Have Secret Rooms  
**

_by Gloria_

Rarely in her life had Gloria Ruston been verbally insulted, and never without the speaker suffering some horrible disfigurement shortly after the words had left his mouth. Now, in the space of five minutes she had been called:

(1) Cap'n Incompetent, which wasn't even alliteratively clever. (2) Moron, stupid and half-wit, which were baseless accusations considering her level of education. (3) Bungler, which wasn't entirely fair considering it hadn't _just_ been her defending the harbour. (4) Buffoon, which clearly showed what sort of shoddy education _some_ beasts had these days. (5) Otter's auntie, which she most certainly was _not_. (6) Wench, which earned the speaker a new scar and pretty, red spots on his uniform. (7) And radio-headed barrel-talker, which didn't even make sense. Radios had been outlawed since the Houndestoothe and Plushpaw Incident of '31.

However, being attacked, as she was, from all sides, there was little time to take each beast aside, tie him to a chair, and embark on a joint quest to discover new and exciting ways in which noses could be removed. Even Regi – darling, sweet, snarling, incensed, _traitorous_ Regi – had joined the queue to give her a figurative slap.

Their current surroundings were a further affront to Gloria's dignity. The retreating forces had scattered to the farms surrounding Bully Harbor, each slinking below ground to the Tunnels that Time and Two Consecutive Ministers of Niceties Forgot. Many of the earthen walls had fallen in, bringing beetles, worms, and a few decomposing corpses along for the adventure. Gloria had tasked several of the more organically-inclined members of the factions to deal with the matter, and they had only just finished clearing the way into the more well-maintained Unsmudgable tunnels that ran like a rabbit's warren beneath the city.

But at the moment, the Captain of the Guard had set up a temporary base in one of the more stable tunnels to discuss all that had happened. She had begun to regret this.

"How could ye have made such idiotic decisions about the defenses after I _warned_ ye somethin' like this would happen, Ruston?" Fredrick Wright raged, his right arm in a sling and a fine mixture of grit and congealed blood causing his thick fur to stick out at odd angles. "Why'd ye have to drag my lot into this? I'm about to say screw yer bloody money! Hire the Kreehold!"

"If you'll recall, Mizter Wright, the Kreehold fled the harbour zome time ago. Hiring them would be impozzible. But... I muzt say, Captain Ruzton, it _iz_ hard to believe you did not think to pull the Guard from the harbour zooner, once you zaw the enemy had breached your barricadez," Kips, the Fogey Commissioner, hissed. He narrowed his hideous reptilian eyes and flicked out his tongue as if to spit at her. "Thiz waz folly and my Fogeyz zuffered from zuch late warning. Almozt half our numberz are gone. Thiz iz a mozt unzatizfactory zituation. How do you expect uz to polize the whole harbour when thingz return to normal if we have only zeven-hundred beaztz?"

"And what about the Museum? The Opera House? The _Unsmudgables_, Gloria?" Regi threw in. "Some of my best bladedancers were killed because _you_ had me send their backup on a wild gull chase to the Barracks! Good show at seeing through Lock's tricks! And _now_--now we're left skulking in these Fates forsaken burrows without proper provisions!"

"Or healerz," the lizard interjected.

"Or a plan," the pine marten added.

"Or-"

"_Enough_!" the lady stoat bellowed, slamming her arms down on the make-shift table they stood about so forcefully that it collapsed into a heap. Tin mugs and parchment scattered across the mucky floor.

"An' now ye've ruined the good maps, _Captain_," Wright growled.

"How 'bout I ruin yer face, then we'll see-!"

"Captain?"

Gloria whirled about, striking at the loamy walls to avoid stabbing the beast who had tapped her on the shoulder. Her hook sunk in and caught on something.

"Ruddy-! _What_?" the captain demanded, very much aware that she not only sounded petulant, but that she must look like a kit throwing a temper tantrum. What else could she do, though? Nobeast would let her get a word in edgewise. She tried to calm down – shouting wasn't helping her case in the angry, black eyes of the torch-lit faction leaders.

"Er..." It was Sil, tail fluffed out and paw on her short sword for comfort. "Sorry, ma'am, but I thought you'd like to know: some stragglers just arrived at the Fogey entrance to the tunnels and they have two beasts with them captured from the Southern Army, a pine marten and his pet bird."

"It waz Fogeyz who brought theze creaturez in?" Gloria did not need to look at Kips to know that a self-satisfied grin was splitting across his scaly maw.

"Aye, very good, Commissioner." The Captain of the Guard snorted. "Yer clumsy-pawed oafs managed t'do one thing right. Too bad they didn't bother during the actual assault."

"Says the stoat who engaged General Lock _directly_ an' did absolutely nothin' t'stop him as she tucked her tail 'tween her legs an' ran," Fredrick sneered.

Gloria made to slash at him, but the wall refused to let her hook go. _Of course_ she would have to find the one section that didn't disintegrate on contact. It was the perfect end to a perfectly wretched day. "Oh, shut up, Wright," she said instead, leaning her weight up against her left arm to give the appearance of nonchalance. "All of ye, in fact," she added as Kips and Regi opened their mouths. "I realize things aren't looking s'fine as they did this morning."

"They never looked that 'fine' t'begin with, Rust – _Argh_!" Fredrick snarled, clutching at the side of his head where a piece of driftwood had just struck him.

Gloria pursed her lips, lowering her arm, and gauging whether she could reach and throw another piece of the fallen table if needed. It would be a bit of a stretch for the next one. Luckily, the pine marten had quieted and simply glared at her mutinously, blood oozing from a new cut above his eye. She decided she liked him that way – silent and bleeding.

"Now, then," the lady stoat continued, "I _do_ have a plan and the matter of provisions will be dealt with presently. Healers... are in short supply in the city – ones that aren't filthy rich and runned-off t' the country already, anyway. A few of my Guards are trained as field medics, Commissioner. If yer needing them, I'll be happy t'lend 'em t'ye if ye'll do us a favor: leave those prisoners _yer_ Fogeys brought in t'be interrogated by a professional."

"A profezzional who killz her zubjectz without acquiring uzeful information?" The lizard turned his head to one side, watching her from the corner of his eyes as he flicked out his tongue again.

"May I say, for the record," Gloria growled, feeling her hackles rise, "Pylaris. _Was not_. My doing. Whatever _some_beasts would have ye believe, it was that Misanthropy Enforcer, Markook. The Director sent him specially for the job and I didn't want t'insult her when I had a more pressing war on my paws – one more easily won."

"Glad you cleared that up, Gloria," Regi deadpanned. "And here was I worried you'd actually made a mistake while torturing your own kit."

The lady stoat scowled at her husband, but did not rise to his bait or believe for one second that the matter was settled between the two of them.

"You mentioned a plan and provisions, though?" the Unsmudgable continued, rolling his eyes away before she could initiate a glaring contest.

"Aye," the Captain of the Guard agreed. "Sil!" She turned her attention to the cat who started. "Go'n tell everybeast that we'll be heading out in ten minutes' time."

"Right. Where do you... um... Are you stuck, ma'am?"

The Mistress of the Keys was staring pointedly at Gloria's hook, still buried in the wall. The lady stoat's nostrils flared and she took a step toward the cat, arm stretched out awkwardly behind her.

"Get out of my sight if ye enjoy yer pretty ears intact, Ms. Kashiro."

With a hasty salute, Sil fled.

"Really, though, Gloria," Regi hazarded after the wildcat's pawsteps had faded to distant echoes, "did you want some help?"

Gloria was moderately impressed with the speed at which Regi drew his rapier to block her sword.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then."

--- --- ---

Hook freed from its earthy prison, Gloria led the way – with no small assistance from a detailed, if smudged, map – through the Unsmudgable tunnels toward the Ruston mansion. A long line of beasts she could never hope to house followed along behind, lured by their leaders' promises of food from the larders of the Captain of the Guard herself.

_Whatever motivates 'em,_ the lady stoat thought to herself as she hopped over a fallen beam. They were close, Gloria knew that much. She did not frequent the tunnels that led off from the basement of her home, but she had played in them enough as a kit to recall some twists and turns.

"That it?" asked the Guardsbeast holding the torch beside her. He was pointing at the end of tunnel where a heavy metal rung hung from the stone wall.

"That's it," Regi affirmed from behind.

Five minutes and the application of two gargantuan Fogeys later and Gloria had taken the torch from the Guardsbeast and used it to illuminate their basement. An assortment of cudgels, spikes, axes, maces, daggers, chains, muzzles, and whips hung neatly along the walls. They were grouped by their ability to inflict different sorts of pain and each had a plaque under it with a name for the weapon. In the middle of the room were four iron spikes with manacles attached to them, and off to one side were a stretching rack and a writing desk with assorted knick-knacks scattered across its surface.

"You... live here?" Kips asked, poking his snout in and tasting the air with a flick of his tongue.

"It's home." Gloria beamed.

"She means upstairs," Regi interjected hurriedly.

"Now," the lady stoat said, "where did those prisoners get to, Commissioner?"

--- --- ---

In short order, the Southerners were shoved through the ranks idling in the tunnels and into the Ruston basement, and their blindfolds removed. Gloria had taken the time to instruct a few of the more intelligent-looking Guardsbeasts, Wotfers, and Unsmudgables to check upstairs and make sure the coast was clear – she wouldn't trust a Fogey with the expensive, breakable objects decorating her house – so that they could begin securing the premises as their base of operations. General Lock might be able to take Bully Harbor superficially, but the captain would run herself through before she let him take it for good.

"So, here we are, my dears." The lady stoat grinned as the pine marten and... plover – _How odd t'lead yer dinner 'round on a string._ – were brought to the side of the basement with the stretching rack. The center was occupied by the various factions and their leaders discussing the plan she had outlined to them briefly. They would keep things simple for the moment: let the poisoned grog do its work, and worry the General and his troops with small, sporadic attacks designed to demoralize their troops and give the impression of a phantom enemy lurking around any corner or shadow – not _every_ one, mind, but _any_ one. Keep a beast off kilter for long enough and he was bound to break and turn on his own kind for the pressure.

"My name's Captain Gloria Ruston of the Stoatorian Guard," she explained, directing her gaze at the pine marten, "who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

"Cabin Bird First Class Pleasantrie of the Southern Navy," the bird butted in for some unfathomable reason.

"That's quite the mouthful, my delectable little entrée... as I'm sure _ye_ are."

The marten bowed slightly. "Captain Ruston," he said. "Seth Devonshire, a lord of the Southern Empire, son of Lord and Lady William Devonshire." He straightened and smiled slightly.

_Proper dandy, this one._ Gloria gave a mental snort of derision.

The guard behind cuffed Seth's ear and growled, "'Lord' me Great Aunt Molly's broomstick! That's _Lady_ Gloria Kildare-Ruston yer talkin' to, whelp. Common soldier like yew ain't got cause t'be givin' hisself titles."

"Mr. Hinkly," the lady stoat reprimanded, "ye'll hold yer tongue, or ye'll lose it. If ye can't see that Lord Devonshire is of noble blood, then ye must be after the Tinge harder than I thought these days."

He stared at her strangely for a moment until she recalled that his first name was 'Buttertongue'. Gloria pinched the bridge of her muzzle. "Just... go away, Mr. Hinkly, and take _Lord_ Devonshire with ye. Get him out of those bonds and give him something to clean up with upstairs while I deal with his pet."

"Thank you, Ms. Ruston," Seth said, his chest swelling like a popinjay on display. "I must say that it's a breath of fresh air to find a lady of your standing who can recognize class when she sees it."

_I recognize an easy mark when I see one, whelp,_ Gloria thought as the pine marten was cut free and led away by a sulking Mr. Hinkly. She would get more out of stroking that one's ego than if she proceeded directly to her favorite part of the interrogation process. The bird on the other paw...

"So, a cabin bird. I've never had one of those," Gloria said as the thing stared at her. "Is it like room service on-board a ship? Dinner comes knocking at yer door?" The bird _glowered_ at her. She hadn't known they could do that – not ones that weren't particularly ill-tempered Missertross Gulls, anyway.

"Why is it," he began, "that _every_ creature I've met today has expressed a desire to eat me? Even _if_ you could make the argument that I'm food – which you can't because I have Papers and that's a direct violation of Article 72 in the Rules Governing the Treatment of Prisoners of War – do _I_ go about taunting worms or beetles? No. I wish you beasts would get over this silly preoccupation with victuals! Now, if I may be seen to my proper lodgings until negotiations are entered into for my release."

Gloria smiled at the thing as it puffed itself into silence.

"Oh, Mr. Pleasantrie, my little cabin birdy first class," she said, grasping a studded club from her repertoire on the wall, "ye seem t'have some spirit in ye. Sure as yerself, I like a wee bit of spirit. 'Specially coming from a cabin bird who's privy t'all _kinds_ of information - crew dossiers, orders, weapons complements, his commander's personal letters." Gloria paused, grinning at the plover as she rested the club on her shoulder. "Let's you and me have a talk about all that, eh?"


	15. Happiness is a Warm Gun

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 14. Happiness is a Warm Gun  
**

_by Seth_

Seth was, to put it mildly, exhausted. In the past month alone, he'd been forced into the army by his parents, beaten by his fellow soldiers, kicked by his captain, dragged across burning docks and then half drowned in freezing water on his general's orders, deprived of eating a perfectly good dinner by the Emperor's papers, was now in the claw-like (literally) clutches of the enemy and was being forced, blindfolded, to fate knew where. Did no one like him?

Something from above fell onto his head and _wriggled_.

Apparently, no one did.

"Would someone please take these confounded blindfolds off!" Seth said, trying to shake the wriggling thing off and not scream. "Otherwise I'll make you carry me!"

There was muttering around him.

"But she said they wasn't to know how they got here!"

"They won't, they hasn't seen anything and now they'd just be confused."

"It'd be easier than having to lead them around stuff."

Then, Seth felt paws loosen the knot at the back of his head and he squinted in the flickering torchlight. An earwig crawled away and he glared at it.

_'Dear Sadie,  
I think I'm finally beginning to settle into soldiering. It isn't quite the dashing and romantic life I thought it would be that moved me to join. No, in fact it's much more dangerous and full of peril than I could have imagined. Still, under my influence, I think my regiment is striking fear into the heart of our enemies.'_

"Keep moving, soldier."

Seth stumbled forward as one of his captors shoved him hard between his shoulder blades. They'd been traversing this tunnel for the past five minutes, and Seth was starting to think it would never, ever, not in a million years, end.

"Don't touch me," he bit out. "There's no telling where your grubby little paws have been."

There was a snort behind him. "I could tell you."

Seth tried not to shudder and failed. "Oh, shut up," he snarled.

"No talking!" The shout came from ahead. Seth tried to make a dirty gesture, but remembered his paws were tied behind his back.

Even the _rope_ didn't like him.

_'I do have some rather bad news for you, but I do hope you won't be frightened. I've been captured by the vicious barbarians of the Imperium. Never fear, I won't tell them any of our valuable secrets, no matter how they torture me with their evil devices.'_

Beside him, Pip jerked and let loose a grating squawk. Seth winced.

"Whatever compelled you to make that fate awful noise, please restrain yourself next time."

Pip turned his head to glare behind him. "Someone pulled my tail feathers!"

There was laughter behind them, and even Seth's broken face hazarded a grin.

"It isn't funny!" The bird persisted. "I have to use those!"

"What for, exactly?" Seth raised an eyebrow.

Pip transferred his glare to Seth. "Nothing of any importance to you," he snapped. "Only flying and steering and landing. Besides, I'm a prisoner of war. Under standard 432, that means you're not allowed to _do_ anything to me. There would be Serious Repercussions."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to live among beasts who think you look best on a plate," Seth muttered and then licked his lips. It had been a long time since he'd had anything so nice as fresh meat to devour. He looked sidelong at the bird.

The bird opened his beak as if to snap a reply, but bit it back. He snorted once, turned his head away from Seth, and seethed.

Seth grinned. He'd never seen a bird seethe before. He could almost see the steam coming out Pip's ears. That is, where he imagined the thing had ears. Did birds have ears?

"You know," he remarked, "I could just say that you died under torture and that everybeast else here ate you."

The bird clacked his beak in anger and then pecked Seth's shoulder.

"Ow! You miserable little snipe! Are you _trying _ to kill me?"

"I'm not a snipe," said Pip crisply. "I'm a plover, thank you very much."

"Tastes the same," the marten growled and contorted his neck to see his shoulder. "It'll be bruised for a week!"

"Then it'll match the rest of you."

"Go drown yourself."

"I said no talking!"

The two prisoners looked up and almost walked into a stoat, who glared at them and hefted a very big axe in his paws. Seth nodded accusingly at Pip.

"He started it!" he whined.

The stoat rolled his eyes and then smashed his axe handle into Seth's chest. Seth went down with a 'whoosh' as the breath left his lungs.

"And you." The stoat glared at the bird. "Keep quiet, or I'll use your pin feathers for a headdress."

_'I expect that the General will have me rescued soon, as I'm too valuable a commodity to be lost to the clutches of the Imperium. However, I fear he might be too late for my brave comrade, whom I have protected throughout the battle at desperate risk to myself.'_

The stoat motioned to the Seth. "Get up, stop making trouble, and leave your pet bird alone." He turned away and muttered, "Southern rabble," just loud enough for them to hear.

"I resent that term," Seth gasped out. "I am far above being slotted in with woodlanders and food masquerading as a messenger."

"Would someone _please_ make the marten shut up?" one of the surrounding guards begged. "Otherwise, I'm going to kill him before he reaches the Captain, and then we're all going to die."

"You wouldn't dare!" Seth growled at him. "My father would have words with you."

Pip snickered and Seth glared at him. "I hate you," he said.

"The feeling is mutual."

"You two love birds shut your traps. The Captain's asking for you." The stoat smiled in a not very nice way, and then they were pushed down another tunnel through a group of loitering guards, and then….

_Oh ye fates._

"I'll tell them whatever they want to know," Seth muttered to himself as his footpaws slowed and his gaze lingered on the wickedly pointed objects on the walls. "Provided they promise not to use any of those on me." He paused in thought and then added, "and if they _do_ use them, I'll tell them everything they _don't_ want to know."

"My name's Captain Gloria Ruston of the Stoatorian Guard. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?"

A female stoat was standing in front of a rack. As the bird babbled his response, Seth's eyes brushed across her until they came to the wickedly curved claw where her left paw should have been. He considered. She was obviously a lady of some breeding; the way she held her head and the gracefulness of her motions bespoke that. That, and she was a good bit cleaner than everybeast else.

He bowed slightly. "Captain," he said. "Seth Devonshire, a lord of the Southern Empire, son of Lord and Lady William Devonshire." He straightened and smiled. Countless females had fallen prey to that smile; you could almost hear the 'ting' that the light made as it glinted off his perfect white fangs.

A few minutes later he was standing in the middle of an ornate washroom and a pretty wildcat maid was pouring steaming water into a copper tub.

If you thought about it, it really was amazing what nobility and manners could accomplish.

Hinkly, the stoat who'd been guarding them, stood at the door as Seth scrubbed the muck and grime out of his fur. Oh, to be _clean_ again. He paused a moment.

Was it really practical to be a common soldier in the southern forces when, if he stayed with the charming Lady Ruston, he would be his dashing self within a day or two and a good meal?

It was food for thought, at least, he decided and went back to scrubbing his claws. He glared at a particularly stubborn bit that he suspected was from the clay shells on the docks and scrubbed harder.

_Ah, there, clean._

He looked up at Hinkly who was glaring at the far wall and scowling. The stoat twitched once in awhile and his ears seemed to flick downwards. Seth listened and thought he heard a faint high pitched wail and then shrugged. Probably just his imagination.

"I say," said Seth, giving his cast-off uniform a grimace. "There's no chance of some clean clothes is there?"

"The Lady just said for you to get cleaned up," the stoat growled. "She never said nothing about giving you new clothes."

Seth debated arguing and decided it wasn't worth it. Sighing, he reached for a towel and began drying off.

"Ahem. Ye've a fine... tail, m'Lord."

Seth's head jerked up to see Lady Ruston standing in the doorway, one eyebrow raised. Was she smirking?

Seth wrapped the towel around his waist. "Ah. Thank you."

"I hope ye found the bath t'yer liking."

"Yes, Lady. It was... extremely satisfactory."

She smiled. "Well, then. Have Mr. Hinkly escort ye t'the parlor when yer finished," she said. "I thought it might be nice t'have a wee drink and a bit of small talk." She winked, her claw rubbing against her cheek.

When she was gone Seth struggled back into his still-dirty uniform. The clothes were rough and gritty against his skin, but at least Hinkly didn't wrinkle his nose quite so much when he walked past. He looked into the mirror hanging on the wall. Bloody 'Gates his face looked awful. Ah, well, there was nothing for it.

He motioned to Hinkly.

"Well then, lets be off. The lady awaits."

Hinkly rolled his eyes and snorted.

"Right this way your lordship," he growled.

"Much better." Seth remarked and followed him down a hallway and into the parlor. As he entered, Lady Ruston moved towards him with a smile and a paw held out in welcome. A well-dressed male stoat was leaning against the fireplace and smoking a pipe. Over-stuffed chairs were scattered around a small table in the middle of the room.

_I'm being held in the most awful dungeon, Sadie, fed only on bread and water and forced to sleep on the cold stone floor. However, I will be strong for my country._

"Regi," said Gloria addressing the other stoat, "meet Lord Devonshire. He's a southern gentlebeast. Lord Devonshire, my husband, Blademaster Gerard Reginald Ruston."

Regi inclined his head, cold eyes sizing Seth up from his mucky boots to his drying headfur. "Lord Devonshire."

Seth bowed his head slightly. "Charmed," he said.

"Do make yerself comfortable," Gloria purred. "Regi, be a darling and find us something nice t' drink. I'm sure Lord Devonshire's parched."

The marten smiled at her. "You, my lady, are an angel."

She shrugged as her husband went to the mahogany sideboard set against the wall and pulled a bottle of wine from the depths. "Oh, not at all, m'Lord. I'm just well versed in the niceties of life. Now, won't ye chat with me a bit, sir? I'm terrible confused about why yer _magnificent_ empire's invading our tiny little island. Bit strange, eh? Wine?"

"Yes, please." Seth nodded as the captain handed him a glass. He was distracted momentarily as he caught sight of himself in a side mirror hanging on the wall. He eyed his uniform with distaste and straightened his vest.

"Is it important why we're invading?" he asked as he recalled her question. "All I heard is that you beasts have some sort of new weapon that the emperor wants to play with. But it's mostly myth so this entire operation is pure nonsense.... is there any wine left?"

Seth turned to see her staring at him and offered a hesitant smile. "I suppose I shouldn't ask, though, supplies must be tight for you with the war on."

"Please ask if ye'd like anything, Lord Devonshire," she said, picking up the bottle and pouring him another glass. "I'll do my best t'get it for ye. But do tell me a wee bit about this operation, eh? Maybe ye heard yer captain or the General chatting about the plans for occupying the Harbour?"

"Oh, don't be silly," said Seth taking the glass. "As far as my captain and the General are concerned I'm about as useful as that bird you have prisoner. Which is to say, not at all. This is excellent wine by the way, you must let me have some to take back when I'm forced to leave. Where was I... oh, yes, no. My father happens to be one of the leading backers in this absurd operation and because of this he's allowed to sit in on some of the meetings of our military leaders. He comes home and then tells Mother about it, sometimes quite heatedly. It's hardly my fault if I overhear his ranting."

"Hmph!" Gloria snorted. "Obviously yer captain and the General are more moronic than I thought if they don't value a fit, noble lad like you, m'Lord. As soon as I regain control of the Harbour, I'll be sure to have them hanged for their insolence."

Seth laughed dryly. "Suitable I must say." After all, who really cared? He was warm, he was somewhat less dirty than before, and whoever said that Vulpinsians were savage barbarians were idiots. This lady stoat practically radiated class.

"Yer father's the sort t' rant, though?" she continued. "Tell me a few of them. Ye must have heard some silly things. Go on an' tell me a few. Oh! Regi, mind grabbing a few rations for Lord Devonshire? Make sure they're nice. It looks like the Southerners have been starving their soldiers."

Seth set his glass down on the table and then threw himself into one of the chairs.

"Oh, I can't remember _everything_ he said, that'd take days. But, lets see, the General is under orders to invade and contain until they gain control of whatever weapon you have. Do you have some sort of awful weapon? They say it can demolish an entire city in one go. Anyway, it wouldn't help anybeast because anything that could destroy something so big would practically have to be mountain-sized, and I, for one, am not going to trudge back home with a mountain on my back."

Seth yawned and ran a paw through his headfur. "That's a stunning dress I must say, Captain," he said, letting his eyes drift over her costume. "Matches your color exactly."

The stoat froze for a moment and then smiled at him, her sharp little teeth glinting in the light.

"D'ye think so, m'Lord? Ye've better taste than my husband, then." She motioned with her head toward the door where Regi had left. "He's a bit of an idiot when it comes t'colors - says he can tell them apart sometimes. Hah! I once asked him t'help me choose between a red and green skirt and he said they looked the same!"

Seth watched as she moved towards him and let her paw brush across his shoulder. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back into the chair.

"It's a pity what those mongrels have done t'yer doubtlessly-handsome face, m'Lord. Doesn't match yer colors well at all."

Seth blinked and then looked up at her. "You're far too kind, Lady Ruston."

"But ye must be tired, hmm?" She raised an eyebrow. "Regi'll bring ye some nice food, then we'll get ye some clean clothes, and then sleep. 'Fraid we're a bit tight with the assault, but we'll find ye a nice place t'rest yer head s'long as ye don't mind sharing a bit." A note of apology tinged her voice.

Seth smirked. "As long as it's you doing the sharing, lady, I don't mind at all." Seth got up and taking her paw, kissed it and then stood back, stretching so as to give her a good view of his shoulders.

Later, as he pulled on a clean shirt and relaxed into the first real bed he'd seen in a month, his thoughts drifted towards home as he fell asleep.

_Fear not Sadie, if no rescue comes, I shall make a daring escape and return to my regiment, carrying my fellow captive on my back, if I must._

With all my love,

Seth Devonshire Esq.'


	16. Giving Up Never Felt So Good

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 15. Giving Up Never Felt So Good  
**

_by Pleasantrie  
_

The world hurt.

Pip's prone form stirred in one of the rooms of the Ruston manse. It was a glorious affair, done up in a baroque styling. The walls were painted a deep blue – like royalty, but darker. The gilt trim shone in contrast, bringing out all the details of the molding. The curtains, even, were velvet – dark and lustrous and indulgent.

The texture of the velvet was lost on the bird, for every nerve on his frame screamed from overuse.

The gold of the trim reflected just too much light, making the pounding behind his ears intensify.

The walls seemed menacing, not majestic, imitating the darkness of a cell in the poshest of surroundings.

Even this room was designed to torture him.

The first few moments of his arrival worked through his mind.

_"Now, don't ye worry yer pretty little head over this old thing," Gloria said, as she set the club aside. "Can I offer ye a drink? I prefer tea, myself, but I have some chicory root if yer needing a pick-me-up."_

"Tea is fine, please."

Time passed. Though it was peaceful, every moment in that chamber made Pip grow more and more anxious – his leg twitched.

"Interesting condition," the stoat mentioned as she set two mugs out – tall and thin for her beaked guest. "How'd that happen?"

"Sailing accident." Pleasantrie tried to be vague as he moved to a chair at the small table nearby. "Caught it in some rigging."

The kettle whistled and Gloria brought it to the table between them. She smiled as she poured the water into his mug. "See? Just a wee bit of tea. Nothing s'terrible as ye were expecting."

Pip found himself relaxing despite his every instinct. "No, I suppose not."

The instincts were right. Without warning, she kicked his chair out from under him and was upon him. He gave a startled squawk and tried to struggle from beneath her, but she had a boot on one wing – and was smashing his primaries hard enough to draw tears from his eyes – and was pinning his opposite shoulder with a knee. "Mr. Pleasantrie, I have t'say I'm terrible excited t'begin - it's a bit like a first kiss, that first scream - and I thought I should start with a classic."

The bird whimpered as Gloria slowly tilted the teapot, a small stream beginning to work its way toward his stomach. When it hit, it brought a falsetto shriek from Pip.

"Glorious..."

Moving his wings sent lancets pain down his sides, so Pip lay still again, sprawled on his side. He risked a glance under one wing and saw a patch of bare skin with a small mark that had swollen to an ugly red. It looked like just a squiggly line from here, but--

_"It's a whip. I know it's cliché, birdy, but it was a gift from my husband, Regi. Heh! Bit of a romantic, that one, sometimes. Now... we tried with just feathers, but who knew feathers burned s'easily? Maybe if we get rid of them first..." _

The bird shuddered and closed his eyes. Exhaling hard, he levered a claw against the floor and pushed. His leg gave out beneath him. He felt something grind in the joint.

_It was simply a Fogey truncheon, but in the wrong paws..._

"I know it's not as flash as some of my other toys down here."

Thwack.

"But so many_ beasts just don't appreciate what ye can do with a simple club."_

Thwack

"For instance, did ye know that if ye hit the knee enough times, soon enough even not_ moving it'll hurt? That was one of my grand epiphanies, let me tell ye, birdy. Got a promotion for it!"_

It was later. The light in the room was different, at least, and showed a smiling painting of Gloria. The plover had made it to the bed – that painting was a fine motivator. Every ache, every time his body failed, he saw that grin. "Gonna wipe that grin off," he muttered through a tightly-clenched beak.

He made it to the bed, at least. And then the real pain started to hit. Without the support of a hard floor, his muscles screamed as they were forced to keep his posture in line.

Even comfort hurt.

Pip closed his eyes and for the first time in his almost-forty years – half of them spent on the sea, working for pittance through the worst that nature could throw at him – he wished he were dead.

And then there was a knock at the window.

_It's another trap._

No longer a knock – a scrape came from the glass.

Pip forced an eye open and saw a small paw reach through a hole – one of the panes had been cut out whole.

The paw was smaller than any vermin's. It had short, blunt claws and rough pads. The head that followed had a snort snout, large, furry ears, and oversized front teeth.

_A squirrel?_

"Great elms o' Southsward... they sure did you over, eh?" The squirrel pulled its head back and reached a paw in, unlatching the window and slipping inside. "Come on, then, let's get you back."

Pip gurgled at the beast, "Whoargo?"

"No more o' that, Mr. P. Lemme wrap this bit o' rope 'round your middle, then we'll have you outta here in two winks." The squirrel bounced to the window and hollered down, "You ready, Llu?"

Apparently the reply was an affirmative, because in the next moment, Pleasantrie found himself being dragged across the floor and practically thrown out the window. He landed in the arms of a small, burly mouse, who glared at the window. "Next time, give the poor beast some warning, Tzama."

"Sorry, Miss Llu!"

Pip cast a wary eye about. It would figure that Gloria would place him on the second floor, just to spite him. The pair worked their way down the tree, jostling the bird between them.

Like before, every movement brought new-found aches to his light body. The rope itself bit into the fresh burns under his wings and dug whimpers from the depths of his chest.

"Just a few more branches, lad, we'll have you down." The mouse's voice was low and flat, but somehow reassuring after the saccharine tongue of his tormenter.

They reached the ground. The sight of grass almost brought a tear to the plover's eye.

"Burr. Oi'd be'm goin' noaw, sirs 'n missuses." Another woodlander voice cut in.

The trio-plus-Pip began to move away, Llu and Tzama sharing his weight between them.

"Back through the edge of the park, around to Southern HQ?"

"Aye, Tzama. Now keep it buttoned for once."

"Yes ma'am." The squirrel mumbled under his breath, however, "And as I crept through the window, the hostage whimpering in a corner, I spied a dozen ferrets in front of me, halberds at the ready..."

After a few minutes of moving, Pip croaked in their direction. Llu nodded to her companions and they took a break behind a large shrubbery. The mouse fished out a canteen and poured a sip into the bird's beak. "Sorry it's just water."

Pip grimaced at the mention of the word. _And water..._

It was enough moisture for one word. "Why?"

A short bark of laughter was his reply, and the mouse took a drink herself before explaining. "You mean, were we sent to rescue you? Nah. They sent us along one of the tunnels to keep an ear out for anybeast important slinking about – mostly to get us killed, I bet. Tzama and me kept to the surface and the treetops, Ruby here dove down from time to time to listen in, right through the tunnel wall. We heard them goin' to that nasty wench's castle-of-a-house. After we heard what happened to you, well... I wouldn't leave a rat to die in that hole, and we got enough information, aye?"

"Well..." Tzama looked reluctant for a moment, then shot Pip an easy smile. "Yeah. But you owe us drinks when this blows over. You've got the coin, I bet, workin' for the General and all."

Pip gave a single nod, then closed his eyes.

"Let's get movin' again."

~~~~~

"Mr. Pleasantrie. And what can I do for you?"

"Sir, it's Priv --"

"That will do. I'm not interested in your excuses." General Lock stood. It was like watching an eagle rise from roosting, a deliberately slow motion to allow the prey a moment to comprehend its imminent death.

"Cabin Bird First Class Pleasantrie," the tod spoke from memory. A corner of his mouth twitched at the title. "First class is a nice touch."

"Sir."

"Mmm... not many are satisfied with a position like that for more than a dozen years." The fox turned his back on Pip and gazed out a porthole. "That's odd enough in itself. Have you been caught up with the latest reports, Mr. Pleasantrie?"

"Yes, sir."

"How many troops did General Drua lose in the initial push for the land called "The Trenches"?"

After a beat, Pip replied, "Twelve dead, four wounded. Three were missing, but later found in the bilges with some stolen ale. So... seven wounded, now, I suppose."

"And what capabilities does she now have for holding that area?"

Pip closed his eyes and tried to let his mind pierce the fog that had settled since his waking a scant hour ago. "She'd be at ninety percent strength, which should be more than enough, even with them taking turns resting, assuming we meant to hold it in the long term."

"I thought as much." Lock spun on his wooden peg. His eyes slitted as he regarded the bird before him. "Cabin Bird First Class Pleasantrie... I'm not a trusting soul on the best of days. A twenty-year seabeast who is perfectly content to ferry messages for a living -- no request for a promotion filed -- however, is a stretch even for me. This army has just fought a battle in a clustered city with limited knowledge of the terrain, and communications and coordination nigh on impossible. A flying messenger, who is being paid for his services, would have been beneficial. And yet it seems that while Major Darcy was running a marathon by himself, you were languishing somewhere else."

"Sir, if you'll allow me --"

"No need." The General moved about the table, keeping his gaze level on Pip. The bird flinched, his leg shaking as he tried to keep himself from shrinking away. As Lock fingered a paperweight, Pip's breathing began to speed up.

_"It's amazing, really, what ye can do with weights." The stoat leaned against the table on which Pip lay. "I mean, they're dead simple, aren't they? Lumps of metal. But in the right places..."_

She dropped the weight on Pip's ankle. The bird gave a sharp cry as sobs wracked his body. "Please... you already know. It's a pincer on the square."

She shrugged and picked up another, this one a plumb line. She twirled it idly as she responded to his answer. "Of course it is. I'm looking for something else. Something more."

With a light grunt she flicked her wrist. The plumb struck the plover right above one eye, bringing another cry to his lips. "Fates... oh... I don't know."

She paused in her motion and let it dangle right above his eyes, letting it rock like a pendulum. "Now, Mr. Pleasantrie – that is such a unique name -- ye must have something worth telling me. Unless the novelty of bruises is wearing off. What say we move t'blades, eh?"

"Please, no..."

"Mr. Pleasantrie, you are here only because there is a distinct lack of intelligent couriers who can fly and not be legally eaten. Do not think for one second, however, that this makes you worth either my time or my trouble. Now, if you are captured by the enemy, what is it you should tell them."

"Name. Rank. And, 'The True Emperor kindly asks that you sod off.' Sir."

"Exactly. Now, your name is of no consequence and your rank is a sham. So, the next time you are captured I want you to tell them one thing."

"To sod off?"

"No. A messenger with no spine and a detailed knowledge of my navy is better off dead than captured. So, I want you to tell them: braised lightly, with a light wine and thyme."

"... Sir?"

"That's how I prefer shorebird, Mr. Pleasantrie. It gives it a divine flavor and softens up the normally stringy thighs." Lock pointedly fingered the hilt of his sword. "Because if you are captured again, I will see to it that you are roasted and eaten, whether that be by the enemy or my staff. Do I make myself clear?"

_His Sword..._ The bird closed his eyes and gave a whimper.

_"Now blades, my little birdy, they're a diff'rent story entirely. Ye have t'mind they don't bleed too much, aye? Like my hook: small and fine enough t'minimize the blood."_

She slashed once, at the base of his tail.

"Captain Steep's set up in the Bilge! Argh."

The stoat paused with the appendage in the air, already reared back for another strike. "Steep? Priscilla Steep? The Ambassador's little wench?" The arm lowered slowly. She moved about to Pip's front and used the hook to raise his beak, forcing them to lock eyes. "Ye certainly were saving the best for last, birdy."

She flicked her wrist sideways, leaving a shallow cut along the bottom of his beak. He whimpered and bit the tip of his tongue, trying not to move his beak as a low burn started at the wound.

"Maybe I shouldn't have started s'slow."

"Mortally clear. General, sir."

"Good. Now, get out. You're relieved of duty here. As of this moment, you are to act only as messenger and _Cabin Bird_," he spat the rank's title, "to Steep alone. Dismissed."

Pip couldn't stop his tongue from betraying all sensibilities. "But she's got Private Devonshire, sir!"

"Privates are hired to be captured, Cabin Bird Pleasantrie. Mr. Devonshire is simply doing his job."

"I'm sure," a voice from the doorway interrupted – General Drua poked her head in, along with a devilish smile, "that the mistaken Cabin Bird meant _Lord_ Devonshire."

This didn't seem to improve Lock's mood. "I don't recall asking for clarification, General Drua."

"You know, we barely took the Harbour, Lock. And if we have to wait for reinforcements to end this war..." The vixen shrugged. "You know who his father is."

"Our forces are more than adequate."

"Ah, well." She leaned down to the plover and in a stage whisper said, "It always starts like this. The body goes and the mind and spirit follow."

"That will do, General Drua." Lock's voice was little more than a growl as it seeped through clenched fangs. "In the unlikely event that you have anything relevant to add, I suggest you go busy yourself with matters that actually concern you."

Drua gave a slight bow and slipped out the door, still smiling to herself. As Pip moved to follow, the tod's voice stopped him.

"Mr. Pleasantrie, your last order as a member of this command is to escort The Reserves to Captain Steep. She shall use them to rescue young Lord Devonshire." He paused at his desk and smiled to himself. "I believe their leader was one of your escorts this evening?"

"Yes, sir." Pip raised a wing for a salute, but winced before it was halfway up his body. He lowered it and made to bow, but the pain above his tail and in his legs made him whimper. He bobbed his beak, finally, and moved out the door.

When Pip reached the upper deck, he took in a gulp of clean, fresh air. His pulse calmed as he leaned against the rail. "Outside... alive..."

"What now, Mr. P?" The squirrel from before strolled up, still grinning. He leaned against one of the ballistae.

Pip's eyes moved to the winch. He began to tremble again.

_"It's all about the teeth, ye see?" She leaned in, checking a knot that was around his wing, right where it met his shoulder._

She was chatting in an easy manner as she worked. "With a beast like you, birdy -- fragile, so t'speak -- ye ye need a light touch on the winch. Most racks, the teeth on the gears a large. It's easier. About like... this." She held open her gum with a claw, showing off a long canine. "Good for strength, but no finesse whatsoever. This beauty, though has smaller teeth on the gears. Which means..."

She reached over and gave the wheel a little tug.

Pip could feel his shoulder's beginning to strain with the pressure and a whimper forced its way out. The ropes around his feet and wings burned with the friction as they bit into muscle beneath.

"...which means we can play this game for hours without a single slip-up. Though I have t'say, I didn't think the upper ropes would work on yer wings, birdy. Tied this close, though, they're doing a fine job of it."

"Mr. P?" Tzama had moved closer, a look of concern crossing his features.

"Our new assignment? You're not gonna like it."

"Aww... can't be too bad," the squirrel replied, shooting a grin as he strolled to the gangplank.

The other two rescuers moved to follow, but just as they began to disembark, Pip spoke up, "Ruby, can you come here a moment?"

The mole nodded and waved the other two on, shuffling back to the bird's side. "Wot you'm be needin', zurr?"

Pip gave a pointed glance at the thin red sash about Ruby's waist. "You're part of the SLA, right?"

The beady black eyes didn't blink. "Oi'm not be a-knowin' 'bout them, zurr."

Pip gave a small snort, then continued, "Look, we can't let them know about the tunnels, then, aye? If we let the South gain an upper wing, erm... an advantage, then they'll never send for reinforcements from the capital. Or the Southern front."

The mole tapped the side of her snout. "Moi lips be zealed, zurr."


	17. Sometimes I Can't Make It Alone

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 16. Sometimes I Can't Make It Alone  
**

_by Soriss  
_

Every time a conversation got interesting for Soriss, it seemed, something happened to end it.

"Thisss isss why I don't have any friendsss," the monitor muttered. He held Sal's wrist in one claw and clutched Wazzock's uniform against his shoulder with the other, running as low to the ground as possible without his rotund center of gravity pulling him over.

It wasn't long before his flabby body gave way, and he found himself floundering in the grimy slush. "Ssal!" he called, spitting out exceptionally cold dirt. "Go! They haven't sseen you!"

"Oh, aye, they 'ave," Sal said wryly, grasping his forearm in her paws. Her considerable strength launched him back onto his feet, and as he wobbled, he let his surprise show.

"_What_?" the rat said, looking indignant. "I've carried m' share of heavy buckets, thank ye. Now come _on_!"

Then she screamed as the horde's pounding paws descended upon them, and Soriss had the wherewithal to shove her into a stumbling run. He turned and curled, taking the first blow against his ribs. His breath stuck in his throat, like a sharp piece of food, and the second blow knocked the light out of his eyes.

His last coherent thought was about the uniform half-pillowing his head against the mud.

----

They smelled, and swore, and they could suck on his soggy biscuits for all Soriss cared. The three Southern Army soldiers -- that was who Soriss had made them out to be over the course of their stilted conversation -- shuffled the lizard between them, muttering occasionally. Often, their sentences made no sense at all, but over the past fifteen minutes, Soriss had discovered three things: the rat was named Posey, the ferret was named Rucket, and the wildcat had just eaten entirely too much garlic.

With his claws lashed behind his back, Soriss was unable to cover his nose as the wildcat leaned in. She had a conspiratorial tilt to her whiskers.

"Name's Tipson. Talley Tipson. I -- " She glanced over at her companions, noted their surly, distracted silence, and continued in a low voice. "I write fer th' Friday Mornin' Flatfish. Yew know, like yer own Smelt. Some freelance stuff, yew know. Are yew wid th' defenders 'ere?"

Soriss made a mental effort to close off his throat. Eyes watering, he glared at the wildcat. "Why should I tell you anything? Nossy reporter."

Her golden eyes widened. "Oh, I'm not nosy. Jus' curious. Say, yew came off that Stormthingy ship, didn't yew?"

"Sstormchasser," Soriss said. He wanted to kick Tipson in the stomach -- especially when she let out a high, tinny titter.

"Right! Silly me. Thank goodness I 'ave yew t' 'elp keep m' facts straight."

_Thank goodnesss you didn't eat ranssid onionsss jusst to top it all off. Beetlesss._ "I'm not helping you keep any factsss sstraight, kitty." Soriss jerked on his bonds, nearly pitching forward. Tipson caught him with a surprisingly strong grip; in the process, she dropped the little charcoal stick and sheaths of parchment she'd tucked under her arm.

Soriss surreptitiously kicked wet silt over them.

He managed to paste on an innocent look when Tipson stood back up, but almost broke into laughter when he saw the petty little pout on her stubby muzzle. "Aww, they're ruined," she said. Her eyes glowed slightly, and she opened her mouth to reveal her stained teeth. "Watch it, yew fat oaf. I'll 'ave Prissy -- er, Captain Steep take a chunk out o' yer 'ide."

That sounded highly unpleasant. Soriss shut his mouth for the remainder of the short journey.

They came upon a nondescript brick building with broken windows and a listing front door. Tipson had lost all pretense of being friendly and joined Posey and Rucket in shoving Soriss up the steps. The wildcat even gave him an extra-malevolent push once he was through the door.

_Maggotsss!_ he wanted to scream at her. _I wassn't even fighting you!_

Instead, feeling the very air filled with a simmering, unstable tension, Soriss slunk into the room.

It was a dimly lit bar with quite the opposite effect a good bar ought to have on a beast: it made Soriss feel as if he were about to die, not get drunk and have a merry ol' time with his shipmates. Of course, that could have been due to the weasel sitting in an inside-out jacket at a far table with her legs crossed, the average of murder and despair on her face. One paw absently twirled a beret. She lifted her head, eyes narrowing, as the soldiers pushed Soriss further into the glass-strewn room.

"That's not my luggage," she said. "_Or_ something edible."

"Cap'n Steep, ma'am," the hunchbacked Rucket said, bowing furiously so that he looked like a glass bottle in the waves. "We've captured this 'ere defender. 'E was skulkin' 'round the docks. Figgered 'e'd be o' use t' ye."

The weasel pushed herself onto her footpaws and strode over. Soriss shrank into himself as she stared up at him with a lazy boredom.

Steep made a dismissive noise deep in her throat. "Take him upstairs. Tie him up. I don't want to deal with him right now. What use is he to me? Some towel-toting lackey..."

His three captors began to bustle him towards the staircase leading into the shadows of the second floor. Soriss tripped, bonking his chin against a stair's edge, as Tipson slammed her claws against his back with a spiteful cackle. He felt blood oozing from where her claws punctured him and from a line on his jaw, but had no time to be indignant before they bodily lugged him up the rest of the stairs, burst into a dark room, and lashed him hurriedly to what felt like a dining chair.

"Yew sit 'ere and think about all th' things yew didn't tell me," Tipson hissed into his earhole, "an' I'll just say yew were a big, mean lump in th' next issue."

Then the soldiers vanished, leaving Soriss shivering in the darkness.

From cracks in the floorboards, he heard Rucket simpering: "Yes'm. No'm. Sorry'm. Right away'm."

And Tipson: "_I_ wanted t' get yer luggage, but these 'ere _morons_..."

And Posey: "We'll getcha food, Cap'n, promise!"

Soriss sighed and tuned them out. He didn't bother to test his bonds. His body ached with the weariness and cold, and on an empty stomach, he was in no shape for further physical exertion.

Once his eyes adjusted to the dark, the lizard let a smile grow on his mug. They'd tied him up in a dining room -- a little bare, but with a long table and enough chairs to seat the whole of the _Stormchaser's_ officer corp.

Soriss sighed. His claws shifted involuntarily; he longed for a proper kitchen, with proper pots and spoons...and _oil_! The sizzle of shredded potatoes and cabbage as they became rösti cakes...oh, how he missed it. He leaned back in his four-legged prison, steadying his breathing. If he was free and in his element, he would do this table justice.

At the head of the table, he would sit some commander-type. Maybe Wazzock (no, he decided quickly -- the rat was too modest), maybe the Emperor, maybe even that weasel lady downstairs. It didn't really matter, because as long as they appreciated power and the trappings that came with it, they would dip into his rich leek soup and taste the pure indulgence in every spoonful.

A trickle of drool made its way out of Soriss's mouth. He quickly wiped it off on his shoulder, then made a face. There was no smell he hated more than saliva.

He distracted himself by returning to the imaginary spread. Further down the table, he'd put the rosemary garlic bread and the oil-an'-vinegar dressing to dip it in. He suddenly missed his sister Naliss. She'd taught him to always shake the oil-an'-vinegar just before setting it on the table; he remembered being a hatchling and clutching the bottle in both claws while she patted his back and smiled.

Giving his head a little shake, Soriss focused furiously on the table. Plates of dandelion cream pasta, sprinkled with deep-fried ants, popped into existence; pasties filled with carrot chunks and fish bits materialized at every place setting; and he saw himself pouring his wrinkled mother a glass of strawberry cordial, sweetened just to her taste.

The monitor's face was suddenly damp. He'd never given much thought to leaving his family -- just sailed off as soon as he could, before the draft and the legal system caught up with him. And during the torturous double shifts for culinary school, the lonely hours spent staring at the ceiling and inventing new recipes; during his daily dance with death as the Emperor's first line of poison defense; and during his stint on board various ships, he'd never given a thought as to how they felt when he left.

Now, unexpectedly, he missed them.

He didn't miss having to tell them how his day went, or how he was _feeling_ about things. Soriss didn't like company or conversation much; he preferred his own, though he never let that show if someone wanted to engage him. He missed his family's presence. He missed sitting in the corner of the den, his parents' chatter and siblings' bickering a pleasant background to his thoughts.

_Beetles._ No -- thoughts just made things worse. Soriss thrashed in his chair. It wobbled precariously, finally crashing over and stunning the monitor slightly. His tail continued to flop, and through his haze, he felt it come in contact with a cabinet of some sort. There was a crash of glass, a strange whizzing sound, and then his head cleared and he tried to sit up.

His ear hole was positioned over a crack in the floorboard, and though he was now blocking one of only two sources of light in his prison, he found that he could hear the goings-on downstairs much more clearly.

"Now _this_ one is more interesting," the weasel, Steep, was saying. "Where did you find him?"

"Snoopin' around down by the armory. Caught 'im pulling uniforms off'n our deadbeasts." This was a new voice, curt and tidy. Soriss imagined it to belong to a stiff-backed fox, and he wondered which _Stormchaser_ crewbeast had been careless enough to get caught. He rather hoped it wasn't Sunyl.

"Oh?" Steep's voice took on an edge. "Sullying our dead, were you? Going to use their...hold on." Things clunked and thumped; Soriss lost track of what sound represented which beast.

Then he heard the presumed fox give a self-amused cackle. "What did 'e want our uniforms for? Quiltin'?"

"Right, right," Steep said, clearly distracted. "Take him upstairs. Another prisoner was brought in earlier. Tie him up as well, but keep them apart. And _you_!"

There came a sudden, huffed rat squeak and grunt. Soriss sniggered. He could only imagine what had just happened to one of the hapless soldiers.

"You'll get a promotion if I have anything to say about it," Steep said. "Shoo, shoo, a jill needs her privacy! Go guard the prisoner's room upstairs for now. _Ohhhhh_, my _luggage_!"

They were coming upstairs! Releasing the four or so odd curse words he knew, Soriss made a squiggly motion with his body that moved his chair out of sight of the doorway. He sucked in his gut and hoped it wouldn't protrude too much.

The door crashed open, and another trio of sloppily-dressed hordesbeasts marched a prisoner into the room. One, a stoat by her silhouette, moved to the cabinet Soriss's tail had smacked and pulled out a length of rope.

"D' ye smell smoke?" she asked.

The fox (it _was_ a fox! Soriss basked in this small victory) cuffed her between the ears. "Shut up and start tyin'. I've 'alf a mind to tell Cap'n Terion you're as incompetent as you look..."

They finished their job and left, bantering. Soriss kept very still, listening to the newcomer's labored breathing and soft mutterings.

He gulped.


	18. Bravely Bold Sir Kriley

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 17. Bravely Bold Sir Kriley  
**

_by Kriley  
_

_This isn't so bad. It's only just the worst ever._

Kriley stared straight ahead, stone-faced. His glasses were askew and smudged with blood, but there wasn't really anything he could do about it at the present.

The fact that he had been foolish enough to be captured picked at him, but it was more like the keening whine of an insect. That could be ignored.

_Why?_ he thought. _Oh, WHY, did I have to be captured by these beasts?!_

It was at that moment that Kriley made an important discovery. In order to be a captain, one had to be certifiably insane. At least that hook-pawed stoat was on his side. This weasel, though... he shuddered. And she'd touched him! They all had.

The rat sighed. _Best not to think of such things. Calm, that's what I need to be._ A deep breath, and he tried not to focus on how matted his fur was, or the bloodstains on his stolen uniform. _This is irrational, and I won't let them get the best of me._

It was a laughable concept and he knew it, but now at least he couldn't say he hadn't tried.

He turned to his fellow captive, who stared back at him with his dull lizard eyes, and resisted the urge to sigh again. If he had his choice of beasts he could be tied up next to - _Hm. Don't really think I want to go down that train of thought._

Needless to say, he wasn't thrilled that Soriss had to see him like this, which was more of an incentive to calm down.

Deciding to do something about that annoyingly awkward silence, the rat cleared his throat and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. "So," he said, "er... when did you get caught, then? Wasn't recent, was it?"

Soriss shook his head, and Kriley thought he saw resentment in the monitor's baleful gaze.

Kriley decided that it would be a more fruitful venture to remove an enraged wolverine's teeth than pull any conversation from the lizard and so set to staring at the wall. Half of it was blurry, and a dull ache pounded at the base of his head. If he listened very carefully, he could hear voices through the floor, but very faintly and only now and again.

Realization Number Two: Being a prisoner was quite boring.

He had just closed his eyes when Soriss spoke. "Iss Sssunyl ssafe?"

Kriley blinked, but nodded. "Quite. She ran off to find the others, as I instructed. I only hope she wasn't impeded as well."

There followed another painfully long silence. "Er, found anything useful? Before, well... y'know." Kriley coughed.

Soriss shook his head. "Not really."

_By the claw!_ The rat was half convinced that this was the torture the Southerners had prepared for him. _Would it kill that stupid lizard to say something? Probably incapable of a real conversation anyway._

And yet...

The creature was a foreigner, probably never engaged in a battle like this before. Or been captured. Perhaps a more genial approach was in order. Against his better judgment, the rat tried on a tremulous smile. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

Kriley could almost see a flash of surprise cross Soriss' face. "No, sssir, not sso much. That ssstupid cat hit me for no reasson, though."

The rat blinked; he hadn't recalled a wildcat among the beasts who'd captured him. "Hmph. Sounds like a right brute."

"Oh, sshe wasss. And nosssy too. You're lucky you haven't sseen her. Or, rather, sssmelled her." The lizard's words were flowing a little more freely, but Kriley was still somewhat surprised when he added. "What happened to you, ssir? How did you get caught?"

The rat sighed. That was something he would have rather not talked about, but it wasn't as if there was anything else to do. "So, after we split up..."

~

"Right, then." Kriley looked over his spectacles at the beasts in his group. There was Sunyl, of course, and three others: A wildcat named Sasha, the steersbeast Ripper, and another rat, Mikkel. Kriley narrowed his eyes. Had Mikkel always had that twitch? _Oh, well._

He went on. "Time to find some uniforms. If anybeast stops us..." He glanced down at the modest cooking apron and frowned. "I'm...uh... the Mysterious Wonder Chef who shows up at battles to feed the wounded, and you lot are my apprentices." The other beasts stared. "What?"

However, the rat noticed that they were staring at somebeast behind him. Whirling around and rather wishing he still had his saber, Kriley nonetheless relaxed when he recognized the wide-eyed stoat.

"_The_ Wonder Chef?" That stoat clasped a paw to his head. "Gracious, I never thought I would actually meet him, and here you are!" He performed a courteous bow, tipping his hat politely. "My name is Crondie, sir."

Kriley opened his mouth to explain himself, but thought better of it. He shook the stoat's paw with vigor. "Oh, yes, I've heard of you! From deep in the dark, I heard the cry of...uh, muffins! In peril! And I could not help but come to punish those sweets-hating scum!" Kriley finished this all with a mighty pose. He thought he could hear at least two muffled groans behind him, and at least one more pair of eyes rolling out of somebeast's skull and clattering against the ground.

But he ignored them. _This is actually kind of fun!_ For a moment, he entertained the thought of crafting the World's Largest Holed Doughroll to slide through the icy town with, battling evil-doers atop it. But only for a moment.

"But," he added before the stoat could continue. "What are you doing, good sir? Surely you don't mean to join the fighting?"

"Oh, gracious, no." The stoat laughed at that. "Fight? Best to leave that to the beasts that want to die. I planned on riding this whole dreadful business out until the Guard and everybeast else drives out those savages. I am the only Stock Broker in Bully Harbor, you know? But, now," Crondie said with a grin that nearly split his face, "you're here, and I will be more than willing to join forces, as they say! As long as I'm safe, of course."

Kriley matched the stoat's grin. "Excellent! Coincidentally, you wouldn't happen to know where, erm, those dirty foebeasts are keeping their weapons and uniforms and such, would you?"

"I think I might know." Crondie's ears perked. "Ooh, I see, now! Very clever, Mr. Wonder Chef." He wiped his paws. "Very well, then! Shall we be on our way?"

--

Kriley found it uncanny. For a stock broker, Crondie seemed to know quite a lot about the habits of the Southerners as he led the group of _Stormchaser_ corsairs through the besieged harbour. Although they were close enough to hear the battle cries and smell blood on the wind, they never actually entered any areas where fighting was occurring.

Things were actually going well. Very well. And Kriley was beginning to feel anxiety prickle at his fur.

Or maybe that was because Sunyl was walking so close behind him she was nearly on his tail. He felt the vixen's breath ruffle the fur on the nape of his neck and tried not to shudder; it was like the breath of a hungry wolf. Despite himself, he turned his head and nearly ended up bonking snouts.

"Sorry, sir!" she whispered.

"'s fine," he murmured, although it really wasn't fine at all. _Gates, what's wrong with me? I've got to concentrate._

"Is that it?" Sasha pointed to a snow-covered shack in the distance, his tail swishing against his legs.

Crondie nodded. "Yep, there it is! I imagine there will be a few guards at the front. Ah, there!"

A beast, too far away for Kriley to tell what sort, strode just in view before vanishing again. _So, at least one is on patrol in front. It's an armory, though, so there must be more._

"Right," Kriley said, lashing his tail for emphasis. "We're going to need to split up. Sasha and Sunyl, the two of you will distract the guard while Mikkel and I go around the back and see if there's any other way in. Dispatch the guards at the front, and we'll meet up once we're inside."

Sasha rolled his eyes. "Why? Shouldn't we leave the distraction to the 'amazing' Wonder Chef?"

"My!" Crondie said, eyes gleaming with delight. "I'm sure even those brutes would love to hear one of your recipes!"

Kriley glared at Sasha, who smiled smugly. The wildcat was well-spoken, but a bit of a prat. "I'm afraid not," he said tersely. "And you could use the experience, _Apprentice._"

The wildcat muttered something to himself, but didn't offer further argument. Sunyl saluted. "Great! We'll take care of it in two shakes, sir!" Before Sasha could argue, she was shoving him off, and the two were on their way.

Crondie nodded his head in approval. "Fancy! Now, I think I'll stay here. Er, keep watch." Kriley blinked. "On, y'know, this side of the harbour. Can't be too careful, yes?"

The rat decided that this stoat would be no help even if he were to come, so he nodded. "Very, well. Now, Mikkel, let's go!"

Nothing. He prodded the other rat none too gently, who gave a start.

"Argh! Rosebushes..." he muttered. "Right, then. Let's go."

Kriley coughed lightly. "Mr. Mirkovic," he said, "aren't you left-pawed?"

"What?" Mikkel switched his rapier from one paw to the other. "Oh, right. Uh, just makin' sure you were paying attention, sir."

The anxiety that had been fluttering in Kriley's blossomed into a garden when the two arrived at the back of the building. Not a single guard. The rat sneaked closer and flicked his ears forward, but couldn't hear anything from the inside. "Hrm."

A cursory inspection revealed that although the shack had no back door, there was a window not too far from the ground, and the two rats scrambled up and over, all-too glad for a chance to be out of the snow.

_Nobeast here, either..._ Kriley did not like any of this one bit. The shack was filled with closets and racks and shelves and entirely too much empty space. Kriley spotted a few green uniforms thrown haphazardly on a long table and tip-pawed toward them, anxiety clutching his heart in its unforgivable, icy grip.

There was a mighty crash, and Kriley gasped, drawing back and fumbling for the knives in his apron. Mikkel went into a battle-ready stance beside him. Instead of a platoon of bloodthirsty Southerners, however, it was only a cat and a fox who entered, dragging the body of a weasel behind them.

"Two more out there, sir," Sunyl said, panting. Kriley noticed a long cut on her cheek, but otherwise it didn't appear she was much worse for wear.

"Well done you," Kriley said with a curt nod. "Now, let's move quickly." His eyes shifted. "I don't much like the looks of this place."

It was coincidence that one of the guards had been a rat. Kriley adjusted his new uniform; A little bloodstained, but it would do. He looked around him and when he saw that everybeast had been properly outfitted, he nodded. "Right, let's go."

His words ground to a halt at the same time that five green-clad soldiers strolled in. The two at the front, a fox and a stoat cried out and advanced on the _Stormchaser's_ crewbeasts.

"Get out, now!" Kriley snarled. They were outnumbered, and the rat wasn't keen on losing any of his charges to this rabble.

Just as he turned to run, however, he noticed Sunyl trip and fall. He ran toward her, but his paw stopped half-way. He couldn't; if he touched her... He would run her through. He could already see it, the blood flowing everywhere. The rat stood there, paralyzed.

A yowl of alarm and rage jolted him as Sasha leaped forward, grabbing Sunyl by the scruff as he slashed out at one of the southern soldiers. He shot a glare at his bosun before running, the vixen close behind.

Kriley tried to follow, but his exit had already been cut off by Southern soldiers, who were closing in on him. He slashed a fox a glancing blow, but felt something heavy strike his head from behind.

~~

"...and the next thing I know, I'm here." Kriley said. He looked away; he should have been the one to save Sunyl. It had been his duty. If he ever made it out, he wouldn't be hearing the end from Sasha until the day he died. The thought made him grind his teeth.

Soriss shot Kriley as sympathetic a glance as a lizard could muster. "Not your fault, Sssir. Resst of group isss ssafe, and you helped."

The rat offered a weary smile in return. "Thank you, Soriss. But I would have helped more if I hadn't been caught."

The door creaked open at that point, and a female wildcat poked her head in. "'Ello?" Before anybeast could get in a word edgewise, she strutted over the threshold, her tail swishing this way and that behind her. "Name's Tipson. Talley Tipson. Reporter fer th' Friday Mornin' Flatflish."

Kriley knew that this was _the_ wildcat. He slit his eyes.

"Hmph! And I 'aven't even asked yew anythin' yet," the cat said with a pout. "_Stormchaser._ Huh, more like _Rudechaser._" She giggled at her own joke, and Kriley had the distinct urge to shove something sharp in his windpipe. At least he could escape her in death.

"Now," she said, whipping out a notebook with a flourish. "Yer goin' t' be a good lil' rat and tell me all about yer ship. Startin' with--"

The sound of glass shattering could be heard from the floor below, along with a harsh, feminine bellow. "Wobble-chops bloomin' rat-faced knee-muncher scruffy pile of used napkins my pretty pink lips I'll slice your fat radish-coloured noggin you lousy doughroll-shaped..."

Kriley felt a sudden increase in concern for his future health.

"Ooh, not again!" Tipson frowned. "I 'ave t' go, but don't think yer gettin' away without a proper interview!" And with that, she was gone.

Soriss and Kriley exchanged glances. "Ssee?" the monitor said.

"Indeed." The rat sighed.

_Has everybeast from the South lost their minds?!_


	19. Wearing the Inside Out

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 18. Wearing the Inside Out  
**

_by Steep  
_

Steep prowled the Bilge in the Bucket. She lit no fire to dry her clothes or warm her fur; she did not want to attract anymore attention than her furious searching already had. Try as she might, she just could not restrain herself from throwing bottle after tainted bottle in frustration, littering the Bilge's floor with rainbow shards.

There was nothing left. Not a single bottle, mug or barrel. Even the taps at the bar were dry. Anything not taken was poisoned—even the cistern water smelled worrisome. Malachite's whiskers, even the bread in the cupboards had been sprinkled with foul-smelling gray powder!

The storage cellar yielded nothing but a drowned ferret in a barrel of ale, and the upstairs meeting rooms had been looted bare of all but furniture. There was nothing left to do but wait. She settled into the chair above her boots and stared at the wall, scratching absently at her nose scab. If only she hadn't stuck to her principles and filled her canteen with that last bottle, instead of the ice-water currently sloshing about at her hip.

_Calm, Steep, calm... he'll find me soon enough, before they do._

But "soon enough" became "eventually" and "eventually" became "hopefully". The fog outside lingered still, and the temperature did not change with the sun's ascent. Steep welcomed the cold—the numbness seeped into her limbs, drawing her concentration away from her head. She pinched the inside of her left paw as she rocked back and forth, her face stoic. Evening would come soon, and she could use the darkness to sneak out and find dinner and drink. Maybe check up on the army's progress...

No, there would be no time for that. She couldn't risk missing him. She'd find out tomorrow who had survived and who had been granted the privilege of being a boxed hero.

She had given up re-rolling the cigars. It was too confusing to do it right and the stuff just crumpled and collapsed even after it had dried. Her stomach growled the frustrations she would not allow herself to voice properly.

She kicked her footpaws up onto the table and settled in for a long, cold day, and prayed to Malachite she wouldn't get pneumonia in the meanwhile.

~*~*~*~*~

Steep jerked awake, her flailing paws sending her beret tumbling off the table. She peeled her cheek off the table, inwardly cringing at the sticky scraping noise, and wiped her mouth and chin with her sleeve. This only served to spread the drool around her maw like honey on toast.

"Aw, did we wake you?"

The weasel stood and whirled about, slipped on the water beneath her chair and fell over onto it. The stoat and fox who stood by the door laughed uproariously, slapping their stomachs and whooping.

"Waha—did you—did you see that?"

"Little miss bottlebrush! Hweehee!"

"Who are you?" Steep demanded, setting the chair up straight. She edged towards her sabre, which she'd laid out on the table earlier—last night, she realised, glimpsing the sun's irritating charm radiate off the boarded-up windows of the shop opposite. Judging by the shadows in the snow-swept street, she would have estimated a little before, or a little past noon.

_A whole day and he hasn't shown up? Not good..._

"Charles and Broker, attorneys at law," the fox said. "Or, no, wait—wait... Er, what are those crossbow makers, again?"

"Jinks and Pepper," the stoat said, thinking about it. "But you know, we need crossbows for that one to work."

"Oh, yeah..."

The pair were not wearing Southern uniforms, but neither were they wearing any sort of Imperial getup. At least, none that she recognized. She wasn't sure if plaid vests were regulation now or not.

"Gentlebeasts," Steep interrupted—though she would have been happy letting their comedy routine continue. "If you are not here on MinoMis business, I suggest you leave."

"MinoMis?" the stoat snapped, suddenly leery. "What've they done now?"

"Poisoned all the grog," Steep said. "Apparently in the hopes that those Southern tailheads will get here and drink it all. But it doesn't seem the news got out to yokels like yourself–" she gestured behind her "–and those rats. Now, are you here to relieve me so I can go home, or would you like to try your luck?"

"Told you it weren't worth it, mate," the fox grumbled. "We'd best get out. You, too, weasel. They'll be along this street any minute now. Blast! Stupid bloody MinoMis!"

"Maybe we can hit the Herring before they reach it," the stoat suggested as they slipped back out the door. "Ain't going to let no tailhead drink our best _argh_."

Steep grabbed her sabre as the fox's head rolled by in the street, causing the snow to melt in its wake. The stoat tumbled past next, his vest now improved somewhat by a hefty dose of thick maroon still fountaining from his neck.

"Ah," she said, as a ferret's mask popped around the doorway to peek in. "Private Peskers. Lieutenant Lilith!"

The ferret and rat edged inside and saluted. They looked cautiously around at the carnage before at last deeming the situation safe and sheathing their blades.

"Permission to ask where in Hellgates you've been all yesterday, _ma'am_!" Lilith said.

"Denied!" Steep bellowed, grinning hugely. "Oh, and keep it down, will you? Don't want all of Bully knowing we're in here."

"Seeing as almost all of Bully belongs to us now, I'm not sure it's much of a problem," Lilith said. "Except that General Lock says if you're not dead then you better bloody well be storming the Emperor's palace on your own intention, preferably with a ragtag group of loyal rebels you ought to have picked up in the forests outside the town. Why didn't you kill those two out there, ma'am?"

"Oh, I was chasing 'em," Steep said, waving a paw vaguely. "Cowards were pretty fast."

"They looked at ease to me," the rat said. "Strolling, even."

"They probably didn't know who you were, Cap'n," Peskers suggested. "Some of the locals we've captured have already gone on about you. It's almost got a melody now. Callin' you The Unstoppable Phantoms, you and that poncy marten. Gone on about how they set you on fire and blew you up and you were on fire and you killed everybeast on shore and then turned invisible and killed everybeast in the Slups—I think that's a sort of trench?—while you were still on fire!" The ferret sniffed. "Dunno why _I_ wasn't part of the myff."

"Because soon as you got in the water you started swimming in the other direction and I had to go haul you back," Lilith said. She smiled primly at Steep. "Only joking, ma'am."

"Good. We do not tolerate deserters, as you well know."

"So what's it called, what you did?" Peskers asked, the very face of innocence.

Steep's eyes gleamed. Her teeth gleamed brighter. "It's not desertion when you're running in the direction where all the enemies are."

"It's usually called 'suicide'," Lilith nodded. Steep slapped her across the ears.

"Enough chatter," the weasel said. "I've captured my base of operations, and now I require my belongings brought here from the ship." It was probably too much to ask for a bath of hot water, but at least she could have clean, warm clothes. Her skirts were still damp. "I assume if you two were allowed to roam free by yourselves that we must have a safe route from whatever docks are still left?"

"Yes'm!"

"Step to it, then. And I suppose if you simply must, let General Lock know I'm alive and well, that I have under my command the Harbour's most famous landmark, and that if Devonshire or that ruddy bird are found, to have them flogged for failure to complete the mission I set them about. And send somebeast with rations, I'm starving and everything here's been poisoned. Got all that?"

"Got it!"

"One last thing. I don't want any guards posted outside. I can deal with any Imperials that come in myself." She smiled queasily. "I just have to offer them a drink."

The duo saluted and high-tailed it out of the tavern. Steep's shoulders slouched. She didn't know what to make of all that. On the one paw, her reputation was probably shot to Hellgates among her own army. On the other, she seemed to have a fairly good gig going on with the Harbour's residents. The Unstoppable Phantoms, eh? Well, it could do with a little better alliteration for starters...

She remembered the chant that had gone about that morning before the attack. "Pesky Private Peskers pilfered Prissy's private port!" had made its rounds among the ranks of soldiers, improving morale—up to a point. Steep's morale had been pretty low until a well-placed knee put an end to the chanting. The fox she'd picked to set an example of would be alive to thank her later, she was sure. He had been in no fit state to march anywhere afterwards.

Word of her location must have gone down through the army, because before she could settle into a good fret, three Southern soldiers came bursting in with a prisoner...

~*~*~*~*~

Steep lifted her cheek from the luggage chest and straightened her jacket out with a cough.

"I was not just hugging my luggage," she declared aloud to anybeast who might have been listening, but mostly just to convince herself.

There came a tittering from the corner of the tavern.

"Course yew weren't, Captain Steep."

"Where'd you come from?" Steep snarled, drawing her sabre and whirling about in one fluid movement; she wouldn't be caught unawares _this_ time! Her eyes darted back and forth, finally noticing the wildcat. The weasel growled and sheathed her sword, feeling quite foolish. It was only Tipson.

The beast was trouble. So much trouble, in fact, that she was the only one to be kicked _out_ of Steep's regiment for it. General Lock had decided it was best for everyone if Tipson was not going about writing, in a very detailed manner, just what transpired during the incident in the galley and attempting to have it published it back home. Steep had been happy to approve of the transfer, and happier to throw the notebook overboard.

"Forgive me, Captain. I slipped in during all th' 'ubbub wid yer luggage and that other prisoner from th' _Stormch_—from th' Slups. I wanted t' ask them some questions, if yew don't mind."

"I do mind," Steep snapped. _What did she say? _Stormch...aser_? One of the Imperium's ships?_ Steep had all but memorized the ship names in the Imperium's fleet. No matter what Lock tended to think, she _did_ her duty to Emperor and Country, blast it.

"I brought lunch."

"What do you want to ask him? He's not busy."

Tipson swaggered up to Steep's table and put the newspaper-wrapped package down. Steep opened it up, half expecting an awesome golden glow to bathe her face and offer a once-in-a-lifetime tour of Bully Harbour's famous fisheries district. It smelled _heavenly_.

"Non-fish Fishsticks?" she asked, glancing up at Tipson. The wildcat nodded.

"Got the from a place in th' Slups. Just needed a little 'eating up o'er a fire." She lifted the edge of the wrapper and tisked in mock despair. "Look at this, 'orrible paper. Grease seeps right through. Flatfish'd never stand fer quality like this..."

"You have until I'm finished this," Steep said. "And I'm starving, so it's not going to take long at all. _And_ I want to see your notes when you're done."

Tipson scampered.

There was a mirror behind the bar, which Steep stared at as she ate. It offered a superb view of the doorway, from where she was seated upon a stool. It also offered a superb view of herself. Well, the _view_ was superb; _she_ was not. She looked like she'd been dragged through Hellgates and back. From the way she was feeling, this was not far off.

Steep wiped her whiskers daintily with an embroidered pawkerchief (P.S.—Signing letters with her initials always confused beasts, who thought another page was missing.) You could have dried blood smeared around your face, gritty sand roughed into your inside-out uniform, and all manner of dirt and dust ruffling your fur, but by Malachite's pawsocks if you had fishstick crumbs in your whiskers then you just weren't _presentable_.

She slid off the stool and approached her luggage, paws twitching. This was the longest she'd held out. How she had survived through the night, she never would know. But it was all over now. She'd wrap her paws around the neck, pry off the cork with a claw, _breathe_ in the musky, delicious odor, and, in a single kiss, drain the bottle dry. It would be glory.

The latches clicked.

As much awe as she had for some of her belongings, there was nothing very spectacular about them. This time, Steep was _not_ expecting an awesome golden glow to bathe her face when she tilted the lid back. So she was rather shocked when such a glow did just that.

"Jewelry?" she choked, lifting the velvet-lined box out. Necklace, bracelets, earrings—the lot. She put it aside. There was red satin beneath. It unfurled into a dress when she stood up and held it out. She dropped it onto the jewelry and bit back a sob as she clawed her way through the rest.

Two boxes of holed doughrolls, a box of Southern cigars, packages of dried meats wrapped in Flatfish front pages, jars of sugared fruit preserves, another nightgown (this one mint green), a sun hat with a feather, an embroidered snake-leather _purse_! But no, no, no. No bottles, no boots, no change of uniform. And there was more. Oh, good grog there was _more_. She couldn't bring herself to sift through it all, not with that bloody heart-shaped glass container full of strawberries staring at her like that.

She nearly slammed the trunk closed when something caught her eye—her fiddle case, neatly tucked away at the bottom. She gently pried it out and carried it over to the table. She held her breath for a minute or two, then let it out in a wheeze as she opened the case. Oh, let it be her fiddle, with the broken strings and the trick back with a bottle of whiskey tucked away for a rainy day...

"Pleasepleasepleaseplease BLOODY SNOT-FACED FOOT-SUCKING _BUGGER_!"

That was it. That was all she could take. The tears came thick and heavy, stinging the muscles in her cheeks more than her eyes. The roar of desperation throttling her airways did nothing to help, but she let it happen anyway.

"You _reeking_ weasel, Scott! You _whiffy_, stupid, _bloatish_ oaf! I'll bloody _kill_ you! Waaa_aaargh!_"

The heart-shaped glass sailed through a window. The jars of preserves were flung at the walls and floor, exploding in gooey orange fragments. The doughrolls rained upon the tables and chairs, bouncing comically. Green and red shreds snowed Giftsgiving tinsel through the air. Steep took everything she could get her paws on, jewelry included, and smashed it with all her might into the bar, the walls, the floor, the trunk, everything in reach. She could not breathe, nor see straight, but still she spat curses and insults like so many spit-flecks from her tongue.

Behind the rage, her mind was clockwork clear.

_Give up. He's not coming. Leave the Bilge. Find a drink. Ease the pain. Ignore the prisoners. Ignore the General. Find a place they'll never find my body. This is where duty got me, this is how my love for my country and Emperor repaid me; I should walk away before I come to my senses. I'm not stable right now, might not ever be. Should run before I mess it up. Should tell them what I plan to do... No! Not even that. Everything life's thrown at me: the pain, the humiliation, the attack on the Embassy, the recon mission, the leeches, General Scott, my regiment, this stupid tavern, this stupid luggage here _right now_—they don't deserve me after this, none of them! Some hero! Some officer I turned out to be! Captain Incontinent!_

"Yes," she said, her voice hoarse now. "Yes, I'll do it! This whole _reeking_ war... s'not—my—_problem!_"

And then she stopped, her paws clenched tight around the fiddle's neck. She grunted, twitching it towards the edge of the bar. But no, she could not bring herself to it. It was a Gladstavier model. It had taken a year to make, possibly two. The strings were fine catgut; a beast had _died_ to make these strings, she knew. Their name was engraved on the back of it—_Kylemour Sozinhastrang_. His claws were incorporated into the tuning pegs; his fangs lined the scroll. It was considered an honour to lend one's body to a Gladstavier. If she had saved every florin she'd earned in her entire career in the army, she _might_ have been able to buy it herself in, oh, another ten years' time.

There was no reason to destroy such a thing of beauty because she was feeling just a little bit sorry for herself.

She put the fiddle down, back in its case, and snapped the lid shut.

Tipson and Lilith were standing at the base of the stairs, staring. Even Tipson was in too much shock to write anything down.

Steep sat down and tugged on her boots, though the soles were likely to give way in a matter of steps. They would at least save her paws from the mess on the floor.

"Lieutenant, bring that rat down to the cellar. You and I are going to have a chat with him."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Tipson, if you're still here when I finish tying this lace I will have you flogged, and I will see to it that I get to do it personally. I want your report in my paws by this evening. And you had best tell the Generals that the _Stormchaser_ has put ashore somewhere nearby."

Steep looked up. The door took a second or two to stop swinging.

Outside the windows, the shadows were lengthening considerably. The wait was over. _Time to find that nose-wipe myself..._

~*~*~*~*~

In retrospect, the Bilge's cellar was a crummy place to do an interrogation. The most interesting thing was the dead ferret, but there was no way in Hellgates she was touching it. Maybe she could force the rat's head into the same barrel... nah, he might ingest some of the poisoned grog. Blast.

Luckily, from the way the rat was reacting to Lilith, it seemed she wouldn't need a corpse to cause him any discomfort. The fellow was shaking fitfully, looking very pale and watery.

"Alright, in that chair there," Steep said. Lilith sat the rat down in a chair and set about tying his footpaws to its legs—his arms already tied behind his back. Steep straddled the chair opposite, resting her paws and chin on the back as she gazed into his eyes.

The weasel's jacket was still inside-out. She had more on her mind than showing her rank and colours to a prisoner of war. The only indication that Steep had tried to fix herself up at all was the fresh set of cigars in the case she now drew out of her pocket. And the beret on her head. She loved her beret.

"Peskers not back yet?" she asked, looking up at Lilith.

"No, ma'am. Dunno where he vanished to."

"Ought to flog that idiot... urgh. Alright, Mr. Rat. Just so you know where I'm coming from, I want to know the following things: Where is your ship, who else has it dropped off in the harbour and how many, where is Pylaris Ruston, is there anything else you can tell me about what's been going on in Bully Harbour these past few years, perhaps tell me what you and Tipson chatted about? And do you have the capacity to declare surrender on behalf of your entire country? Oh, and do you like holed doughrolls? There's about eight-score of them upstairs, I'm sure we could sweep the glass off..."

The rat blinked. His eyes looked buggy behind his glasses.

"You could start with your name." Steep shrugged, pulling a cigar out of the case. "Lilith, get me a flame."

"Yes'm."

"Kriley," the rat said.

"Those glasses for reading?"

Kriley stared, stone-faced, at Steep's nose. Stone-faced until Lilith brushed past him with a match, anyhow. Steep frowned thoughtfully as she lit the cigar.

"So I hear miz Tipson claims you're from the _Stormchaser_," she said.

"That's what _she_ said."

"Does your opinion differ?"

Kriley glowered.

"Lilith, tug his ears for me, would you?"

Now that was downright _strange_; fellow twitched before Lilith even grabbed them...

"Mister Kriley, I would suggest giving me answers to what I've asked you in good time. Unless you want to see a trick?"

The rat shrugged.

"See this scab on my face? Want to take a guess what happened?" She twiddled the cigar menacingly, throwing sparks.

"No."

Steep jammed the glowing end of the cigar into her scab and grinned, twisting it back and forth. Lilith winced.

"Nothing, what happened to _yours_?"

"Nothing!"

"Wrong. Your mother happened to it. Lilith, slap him. Oh, that was _pit_iful. Look..."

Standing up from the chair, Steep grabbed the barrel lid from beside the pickled ferret's footpaws. She weighed it in her paws as she stepped up to Kriley, then swung it like a frying pan.

Kriley spat out a bloody molar and growled.

"Lilith, would you consider Mister Kriley to be a handsome rat? Your type?"

"Probably before you hit him, ma'am," Lilith said. She put Kriley's glasses back on his snout, giving him an apologetic look.

"In that case, give him a kiss."

"Grk!" Kriley whimpered. Lilith narrowed her eyes.

"Is that... an _order_, Captain?"

"Yes it bloody well is, Lieutenant."

"What if he bites?"

Steep winked. "Bet you a florin he's more scared about you biting than you are of him. Go on, I won't watch."

"Oh, all right. Give me a minute to pretend I like him."

"Long as you need, Lieutenant."

The weasel turned around and grimaced, rubbing her scab. She almost wished the cigar trick _had_ hurt. She clenched the side of her left paw tightly, pinching the flesh between thumbclaw and pointer. Nothing faded this time. If anything, concentrating on it just made it worse.

And this whole interrogation set-up... She did not like this. It was too familiar. There had to be another way to get him to talk. But not like this. This was a bad idea.

She turned around.

"Nevermind, Lil–"

"_I'lltellyouanything_!"

Lilith stopped, her lips mid-pucker. Kriley's chair slowly tipped over backwards. His tail wriggled spastically.

Steep trotted over and tipped him right-side up again.

"But Mister Kriley, I don't want to know _anything_. I want to know just a few specific things. Would you like me to repeat them?"

The rat nodded so hard his glasses were thrown askew.

"Alright. Most important one first. Pylaris Ruston..." Steep sniffed. "Do you smell smoke?"


	20. Even When I'm Wrong

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 19. Even When I'm Wrong..  
**

_by Nemik  
_

Nemik had forgotten how much he hated Bully Harbour. The city itself was just a maze of dirty, winding streets, rubbish-filled alleys, and decrepit, boarded-up buildings, plastered onto the map like some sort of horrendous boil and ruining the Imperium's majestic and magnificent image with its blemish of what most beasts called a "utopia." But what most creatures called a paradise, the first mate called a living hell.

Bully Harbour was just a waste dump, a trash bin where common beasts like him could be dumped so that they could be monitored by the Stoatorian Guard and the Fogeys while they performed cheap labor for society. It didn't matter though. No matter what, the rich would hoard the income for themselves, eventually making the middle class poor, the poor poorer, and the poorer dead. It hadn't been surprising to Nemik when he and Wazzock had come across some of the unfortunate beasts of the Slups, desperately trying to find shelter from the ongoing battle, while wandering aimlessly though the streets of the city. It would be just like the ministers and the beasts of the Insanely Rich Area to flee away from the danger with their tails between their legs, leaving the expendable beasts behind while they escaped unharmed.

Nemik wished he was rich.

The only good thing about the sorry excuse for a city was the fact that, because of its maze-like structure, there were plenty of nooks and crannies that he could hide in if things got too hairy. Also, the buildings' and houses' tall walls made a wonderful shield from the heavy portions of the battle. Even if a skirmish was raging only a block away, Nemik would hear the agonizing, earsplitting screams and the familiar cadence of steel-upon-steel before he was able to see it, allowing him to quickly change directions so that he wouldn't be caught in the middle of it.

But still, instead of doing the sensible thing, which was running away from the danger as swiftly as his legs could carry him (which would've been exceptionally quick because of his underweight stature) Nemik and Captain Wazzock darted across streets and through alleys, keeping a whether eye out for any Southerners and holding their paws securely around the hilts of their weapons.

Nemik peered around a street corner, holding his dagger close to him as a precaution in case of a nearby enemy, and scanned the surroundings. Asides from a few pieces of loose trash blowing in the breeze, the cobblestone road was as still as a statue. The first mate glanced over his shoulder, to where Wazzock was waiting patiently for him, nodded, and turned back for another glance at the road. "Okay, the coast is clear," he began. "When I give the signal, yew go across and get'cherself into that alley as fast as ya can." He turned to the rat. "Do ya see it?"

Wazzock glanced around the corner and, sure enough, there was an alley a few tail-lengths away. He nodded. "Aye, Mister Allan, I see it," he started, "but if I can say one thing, I truly think that we've been here before. I swear that that's the same alley where we came across those two dead Southerner's corpses."

Nemik turned and raised an eyebrow. "As much as I respect ya, captain," _which isn't very much, te' be honest_, "are yew sayin' that I've gotten us…_lost_?"

The captain chuckled. "Oh, no, not at all, Nem my mate. I'm just saying that you may have led us in a giant circle."

"A giant circle? Trust me, Cap'n Zock, I know exactly where I'm going. I couldn't have possibly led us in a circle. Ya see, when we get into that alley, there ain't gonna be no bodies in it. It's goin' te' be as empty as a bank after a crook's robbed it," the first mate replied, chuckling. He revolved around and quickly glanced at his surroundings. Now that Wazzock had mentioned it, everything did look slightly familiar. The buildings were recognizable and the street was laid out in the familiarly odd way that looked like the beast designing it had accidently let his pen slip while he drew it. Maybe he should have turned right at Satire Square when the rat insisted that he should, instead of following his own instincts and turning left.

Nemik took a step towards the nearby alleyway. _ Ach, what does 'e know? Cap'n Zock's a loon anyways. That oaf is prolly one o' the most inco'petent, clueless beast I've e'er met and how 'e some'ow managed te' become a captain of even a floating leaf is beyond even me. Ha! Now that I think about it, he'd prolly see a dead beast and think 'e's merely takin' a nap._

"Aye, maybe you're right, Mister Allan," Wazzock stated, trailing closely behind the stoat. "Maybe it is a different alley. After all, most alleys do look a lot alike."

"O' course I'm right, captain. Am I ever wrong?" Nemik replied.

"Well, I don't know, Nem. Are you always right all the time? I'd like to think that everybeast is wrong from time to time but…hmm… I've never really thought about it but maybe some beasts are just always right," the rat replied. "Hmm… Hey, Nem, what's my middle name?"

Nemik didn't answer. Instead he stared at the dirty, dusty floor of the dark alley where the headless carcasses of a rat and a weasel, both garbed in the same olive-green uniform, lay motionless, their bodies turned and left in almost impossible positions that would only be feasible without the head.

"Well, isn't that strange?" Wazzock began, staring at the bodies intently. "Out of all the alleyways in Bully Harbour, we find yet another one with two Southern chaps' bodies in it. Strange, don't you think, Mister Allan?"

_I…I was wrong? _ The words seemed to hang in the stoat's mind like an annoying mosquito that, even if there were a thousand other beasts around him, wanted his and his blood alone. _Oh, no. I wasn't wrong, yew were. If it wasn't fer yer ceaseless chatterin' and yew distractin' me, I prolly could'a actually gotten us back to the crew. This ain't my fault, this is yers!_

"Mister Allan?"

Quivering with rage, Nemik clenched his fists and ground his teeth together furiously. Wazzock was lucky. The rat was just one step out of reach of his dagger. If the first mate had chosen to bring a cutlass with him, instead of his trusty knife, then the blade would have been just long enough to cleave off the captain's head with one swipe.

Wazzock ambled towards the bodies and investigated them closely. "Ah, poor saps, but I guess they had it coming, attacking the Imperium and all that." Nemik measured the distance between him and the captain. Still too far. "What do you think, Nem?"

"What do I think of what?" the stoat asked before taking a tentative step closer to the captain, his paw already on the hilt of the dagger. He had been wrong and Captain Wazzock had mocked him with his ceaseless, annoying bantering of what he called speech. The rat didn't deserve to be able to speak. He didn't deserve to live either.

Nemik took another step forward.

"Strange," Wazzock stated. "Now that I look at them a bit more closely, they do look awfully similar to the other carcasses we found earlier."

_That's because they are the same bodies we found earlier, yew addlebrained excuse for a captain._ Nemik retrieved the blade from his belt and toyed with its sharp edge.

The scene played out perfectly in the old stoat's mind. When Wazzock had his back turned, Nemik would move in and shove the dagger into his unprotected back. It would cause the rat tremendous pain that wouldn't seem to stop surging through his body, but Nemik didn't care. It would be all over for him soon enough. He'd then proceed to add another stab between his lower ribcage, just a hair away from the vital organ that was his heart. The captain would try to crawl away, all the while begging for mercy almost like a child asking his mother for a new toy. He relished this part. The shouts for mercy combined with the earsplitting screams were music to his ears. And when the screaming had died down and was reduced to a mere exhausted gasping for air, while warm, red blood poured out of Wazzock's snout like a river, the first mate would walk forward and slit his throat. It was a simple plan. Adequate yet foolproof.

Nemik grinned from ear to ear and took another step towards Wazzock. He flipped the dagger in his paw, holding it point down, and raised it in preparation to strike.

He hadn't counted on him turning.

Wazzock stared at the knife intensely with wide eyes. "Erm… Nemik, what are you doing with that knife?"

The stoat glanced at the dagger, which was still raised and ready to kill like a waiting predator, and then back at Wazzock, who was now withdrawing slowly from Nemik. "What knife?" he replied.

Wazzock poked a claw at the blade. "Err…the one you're holding in your paw."

Nemik acted surprised and pointed at it with his free paw. "Oh, this knife?" He cackled nervously, trying to come up with something quick that the rat would believe. "This ain't a knife, sir. This is a dagger."

The rat placed a claw on his chin thoughtfully. "Oh, well, I guess that makes sense. Firm difference between knives and daggers, I suppose, but that still doesn't explain why you had it, Mister Allan," he began. "Were you trying to kill me, Nemik?"

He shook his head and shoved the dagger back into his belt. "Kill you?" The stoat laughed, almost maniacally, and patted Wazzock's back heartlily. "Oh, Cap'n Zock, yer simply hysterical! I mean, yer just a right ol' joker today, mate! Ha ha ha! Kill ya? Nah, ya see, I was…err…Ya see, there was somethin' in my teeth and I was usin' the blade te' see if I had gotten it or not." He added another chuckle for good measure.

Wazzock shrugged. "Oh, I guess that make's sense. Can't have nasty stuff getting into our pearly whites."

Nemik couldn't help but sigh in relief.

"Mister Allan, come take a look at this." He staggered to where Wazzock was crouched, staring at the two dead Southerners. He pointed at them and chuckled before turning back to Nemik. "A weasel and a rat-- convenient, don't you think? Now let's just…" He slowly picked the green uniform off of the dead rat and stuck his arms into the long sleeves. "There we go. The perfect disguise, don't you think, Nem?"

"Aye," Nemik replied before ripping the other uniform off of the weasel roughly. He shouldered it on over his vest and quickly buttoned it and straightened the collar. Nemik looked himself over.

The weasel had been taller than him, that much was clear. The uniform went well beyond his waist and ended about halfway to his kneecaps. Nemik could tell he looked terrible in it as well. The uniform was the color of vomit, or what most creatures in the Imperium called "green." But the stoat had to admit that he did feel warmer because of the green jacket's long sleeves, which were keeping out most of the cold Primary winds that didn't ever seem to cease.  
He actually seem to feel more "official" too because of the single medal placed on the uniform's right side. A strange wave of the wonderful aura of duty washed over him and he couldn't help but smile. No wonder why Wazzock always wore his Imperium Royal Navy coat instead of something more casual.

_I'm gonna have te' get me one o' these._

"Righto, old chap. We'd better get going. Can't have the crew waiting on us, can we? Duty and all that," Wazzock said, breaking Nemik out of his wonderful trance.

"Agreed," he replied.

"Very well then. Let us be going."

-.-.-.-

A short time later, the two vermin, garbed in their newly-donned uniforms and carrying cutlasses that they had looted from the two Southerners--Nemik having the sharper of the two--both made their way through the labyrinth of streets and alleyways. After going in a circle for a second time, Wazzock, much to the first mate's dismay, had insisted that he take over the job. The stoat had complained at first-- it had felt good to be the leader, after all-- but had stopped when they had encountered a small Southern patrol and realized that it would be better to have a body between him and the enemy.

Night had already fallen over Bully Harbour when the duo made it back to the docks. The stars hung from the sky as if they were being held by strings that extended into the heavens and beyond, and were reflected upon the water like a perfect tapestry, woven for the pleasure of one's eyes, and the moon hovered above them like some sort of deity, watching over the world while everybeast slept.

"You see, Mister Allan, I told you that I could get us back to the docks," Wazzock stated triumphantly as he strode along the wooden jetty. "I know this town like the back of my paw, although I must admit that it was a bit furrier than I remember. I really am due for a trim. Oh well, no harm, no foul, I suppose."

Nemik had to admit that the captain had done a wonderful job of getting them back to where they started, "But, the crew still ain't 'ere though."

"Well, true. But we have gotten back to where we started which means we'll be able to retrace our steps and, hopefully, be able to find them. It's a crew after all, Nem. They shouldn't be too hard to find."

"Aye, I guess yer right," the stoat replied. "But we still have no idea as te' where they are or if they're even still alive or not. For all we know, a Southern patrol could've caught them off guard and they could all be lyin' dead in a ditch som'where." _Although that wouldn't necessarily be that bad, but still, strength in numbers, I guess. _

"I thought I told you to lighten up, Nem," the rat said. "You never see the good things in life and yet you wonder why you're so grumpy all the time. Lighten up. Be optimistic. For all we know, the crew could be rounding the corner right now and are already on their way here."

"Even if I was optimistic, that would never-"

"Look up ahead!"

"Is that Cap'n Wazzock?"

"Oh, thank th' fates!"

Nemik cursed. The captain always seemed to have a way of being right. Nemik and Wazzock turned in time to see the once-missing crewbeasts storming the dock, their footpaws thrumming against the wood and making an almost musical rhythm as they ran towards the duo. Jibfang, the second mate, was leading the pack.

"Cap'n Zock!" Jibfang sputtered as he neared the two vermin. He panted for breath.

"Second Mate Jibfang, what's going on?" Wazzock asked.

"Sir! It's Kriley and Soriss! The Southerner's…they caught 'em!" The weasel added another gasp and looked up at the captain with wide, pleading eyes.

Nemik's eyes grew as large as a whale at the news. "What?" he muttered.

Kriley and Soriss were taken captive. Sure, they weren't the greatest of crewbeasts--one being afraid of half of the crew simply because of their gender and the other serving up insects and calling it gourmet cuisine-- but he couldn't allow them to be taken prisoner. They were valuable assets to the crew that he could hide behind if the battle decided to knock on his door. Also, if they were taken prisoner, then they were going to be interrogated and the Southerners could learn valuable information about the Imperium's defenses. Soriss was an idiot. He probably wouldn't know anything about the army, but Kriley had a stout head on his shoulders; there was no telling what he knew. And all it would take was a female to come near him and he'd spill everything, which meant that they could learn about…"Ah, 'Gates."

"What?" Wazzock shouted.

"When did this happen?" Nemik asked, taking a step in front of the captain.

Jibfang glared at him scornfully. "How're we supposed to know, sir? Krill and Soriss got separated from us a while back and, next thing we know, we're trying to find you two so we can actually save 'em."

Nemik returned the glare like a mirror. "Well then, Jib, how'd yew find out that they were captured?"

Another stoat like himself--Flaxeye if the first mate remembered correctly-- answered for his comrade. "'Cause the Fates took pity on us."

"And what do ya mean by that?"

"Well," Jibtail elaborated. He motioned to the crew with a single paw and immediately a ferret, wearing the vomit-colored Southern uniform and bound by a length of rope, was brought forward and dropped in front of the first mate and captain. "Well, because _he_ told us."

"And who's he?" the first mate asked, pointing a grubby claw at the prisoner.

"Please sir," the tied-up ferret begged. "Please don't hurt me! I'll tell you anythin' if you let me go!"

"Shaddup!" Flaxeye dealt the prisoner a swift kick in the stomach.

"Well, for one, his name his Peskers," Jibfang stated, pulling a dagger out of his belt. "We got that much by just pulling this out on him. Then we cut him once and he sang like a lark."

"And did you ask where Kriley and Soriss were being held, Jib?" Wazzock asked, reminding Nemik of his presence.

"Aye, that would be important te' know."

"Erm…"

"Yew didn't ask 'im, did'ja?"

"Err…no."

There was a reason why Nemik didn't like Jibtail. He may have been a good fighter but when it actually came to thinking, he was the worst at it.

Nemik sauntered towards Peskers, who had now stopped struggling and instead was glancing around him at the crew fearfully, and drew his newly-obtained cutlass. He placed it under the ferret's chin and smiled wickedly. "Yew heard the question. Answer it and I may not kill ya."

"Err…" The prisoner swallowed as the first mate tickled his chin with the blade. "The Bilge! They're being held at the Bilge! Please, just don't hurt me!" Peskers cried, tears already streaming from his eyes. Nemik chuckled. The ferret was more pathetic than he was. He had barely drawn blood and the Southerner had cried like a kit.

"Righto, chaps and chapesses, we can't have Kriley and Soriss locked up, can we? Who else will monitor our work? Who else will make wonderful biscuits for us to eat when we are hungry? Surely not me. I am afraid to say that monitoring should be left to the monitors and that, unfortunately, I'm not the best chef in the Imperium. I'd probably burn water, given the chance," Wazzock stated, causing the crew to immediately begin hustling to the task. "Jibfang, round up some good beasties for the job. Flaxeye, get together another party. Nemik, you come with me."

"Aye, Cap'n," the stoat replied.

"N-N-Nemik?" somebeast exclaimed from the crowd.

All eyes turned to the ferret prisoner who had been the source of the outburst.

He stared at the first mate who, in turn, stared back like an owl. "You mean…you're Nemik? Nemik the..."

Peskers didn't make it any further. Nemik's dagger had flown like a bolt from a crossbow, embedding itself deep into the ferret's neck. The Southerner made one final gasping sound before collapsing into a dead heap at the first mate's feet.

Nemik didn't know what to do. Every crew member was staring at the carcass or at him like he was some sort of hideously grotesque creature that belonged in a cage. But even if he had silenced the prisoner before he blurted out what he was going to say, they had still heard enough.

Nemik retrieved his dagger from the dead ferret's neck and turned back to Captain Wazzock.

"You were sayin'?"


	21. The Facts Were These

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 20. The Facts Were These  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

_Land and sea are two different worlds. For one thing, fish don't swim on land. The only thing they can do on land is flop about until they stop breathing or are gutted. Guts are strange things in themselves. They don't seem real when they are removed from the body, whether from a fish or a ferret. I once saw a ferret get gutted in a harpoon accident. Had to mop up the remains afterwards. Felt really bad for the chap. Couldn't believe all the red and mushy bits that came out. Same as a fish really. Perhaps sea beasties and land beasties have more in common than I thought. _

Wazzock sniffed the air. It smelled like Bully Harbour. The town had a smell all its own, separate from any scone or fish, with enough bite that it caused nosebleeds on a regular basis. Wazzock liked Bully because of this smell, because it gave the town a personality, almost a solid being -- so much that he almost felt he knew the beast of Bully Harbour on a pawshaking basis. Though you had to count your paws afterward.

So far, his crew had done rather well, despite this not being their proverbial element, which, at the moment, was in an abandoned homestead in the Slurps. The _Stormchaser_ was skirting the realms of Bully, keeping just out of the grasp of the Southern Army amidst the fog. Too bad the same couldn't be said about Krill, and Soriss had fallen off the map. Mostly because Wazzock had lost the green pebble that was supposed to represent the monitor lizard on the map he had draped over the table. Wazzock suspected somebeast had eaten it and would have a tummyache later. He looked at the map of Bully Harbour for a long while rubbing his chin, whiskers twitching in thought.

"Weather status, Mister Nemik," he said.

"Foggy, Cap'n Zock."

"Do you believe Soriss will take proper care of my hat? It's a rather nice hat, and I would miss it if something happened to it."

"…what?"

"Of course, hats are replaceable, no matter how gallant they make a beast look, and beasties, regrettably, are not replaceable, which is why it is of impeccable importance that we rescue Bosun Krill and Soriss from their moment of peril. Agreed?"

Silence met his declaration. He decided that later he would need to improve his captain speeches. Or perhaps just add free scones. He didn't think beasts would be able to keep from being enthusiastic about scones. Or, perhaps he just needed to put it another way. He noted a marten to the side whittling a piece of wood. Her name was Beach, if he remember correctly, just the type of creature to be in the navy (with beach in the title, Wazzock thought it must be fate). She was also a carpenter of sorts. He strode over and carefully took the wood from her grasp.

"So, Beach."

"It's Beech."

"Yes, yes. Beach."

"No! Beech! With two e's!"

"Beach with an 'a'? Nevermind You see, this lass here misses him so much that she is making a figure in his likeness!"

"Actually, that's supposed to be a ferret."

"Posh, Miss Beech, no need to hide such feelings of comradery. Every beast in this room has been helped along under the direction of Mister Krill, and it is our duty to rescue him from the Pit of Despair. And we shall all share a good cask of grog once we achieve this feat. Huzzah!"

At the mention of grog, ears perked, and maws joined in a responding "HUZZAH!"

There were yells a moment later and everybeast ducked at the sound of scampering paws and a swaying lantern light hovered past the window.

Wazzock's whiskers twitched. "Ah. Right. Enemies all about. Should keep quiet." He grabbed the map from the table, scattering the representative knickknacks about. "Let us sneak to the alley. I'll explain the plan on the way."

Soon enough, still dressed in Southern Army uniforms, Wazzock and Nemik strode down a damp cobblestone street, fog now obscuring the details all around. The sounds of battle were now eerily absent, leaving only the clack of their boots and the occasional gull call to fill in the space within the ears.

"No need to keep giving shifty looks at every shadow, Mr. Allan. We must be the embodiment of confidence if we are to pull this off. Part of the reason I told the crew to take an alternative route is that, if were stopped, there would be no beasts to be worried about in peripheral vision, in either the enemy's eyes or our minds."

"I'm startin' te' think that this ain't such a great idea. Riskin' our hides fer just two beasts? It it were me..."

"I appreciate your opinion, Mr. Allan, and I am certain that the safety of the crew weighs deeply on your mind. But I believe there are certain things beyond sense that a beast must stand for. Oh, by the way, that reminds me." Wazzock cleared his throat. "Krill reported to me that some of the crew is plotting to kill you."

"What?"

"Don't worry your whiskers about it, Mister Allan. You know how beasts are. Full of vigor and onions at one moment, as sweet as sassafras the next. Just prove yourself to them, and you'll be just fine. As I've said before, lighten up and perk up your whiskers. Oh, look, I found the green stone that was supposed to be Soriss. Stuck behind my ear the whole time."

"The crew is plannin' te kill me."

"Yes. Oh, what is that up ahead?"

A form sat huddled next to a building, face down into their paws, making a sort of strange squeaking noise.

"We don't have time fer this, Cap'n Zock. If we stop fer every downtrodden beast in this crummy town we're..."

"Bah. Seems like the beast is hurt. May as well give whoever it is a once over. Doesn't seem like a dangerous chap, in any case. May be able to help."

"What, give us a case of the mange?" Nemik grumbled.

"Oh, Mister Allan, good that you keep your sense of humor about you in times of conflict." Wazzock approached the huddled figure. "Excuse me, are you alright?"

The figure raised their face, features shadowed, eyes glistening in the ethereal fog-filtered sunlight. "'m alright." Wazzock suddenly realized, it was not just a downtrodden beast, but a downtrodden female rat beast.

"Oh! Miss, are you crying? In sooth, I cannot believe that a fair miss would be out alone on such a dreadful evening. Oh, my, you appear to have a head wound, miss. You need to place a cold fish on that bump to keep down the swelling. Don't happen to have one in that bucket, do you miss? Let's help you up."

"Yer not gonna take her with us," Nemik hissed.

"We're not going to leave her here. She obviously needs assistance and we are just the beasts to give it to her. She seems like a sturdy lass, just needs a bit of care, and since we are heading to the Bilge, it must be there will be an elixir to help her calm her whiskers. Look, she's shaking. I refuse to leave her like this."

"Are ya with th' South?"

"Ah, do not be be put off by our green attire. We are actually loyal beasts of the Imperial Navy."

"Cap'n Wazzock," Nemik growled.

"As you can clearly see...what's your name?"

"M'name's Sal."

"Oh, is that short for Sally?"

"No."

"So, as I was saying, you can see that Miss Sal here is an upstanding and loyal Imperium citizen. Correct, Sal?"

Sal opened and closed her mouth, making some sort of noises that could almost be considered words, but not quite. Wazzock wondered why beasts did that about him so often. "You must be in shock. All the more reason to take you with us. What happened to put you in this position?"

"S-s-s-Soriss..."

"Did you say Soriss?"

She nodded.

Wazzock clapped Nemik on the back. "You hear that, Mister Allan? What a grand stoke of luck to run across a miss who interacted with our grand lizard cook. Please, tell us what you can as we get to the Bilge. And allow me to carry your bucket for you."

"...oh, thankye, sir!"

It took some chiding and gentle soothing, but eventually, she told what had happened, as Wazzock made care to take his handkerchief (one of the few things he hadn't given to Soriss) and dabbed at the cut on her head. Meanwhile, Nemik grumbled to himself, paws fiddling with his dagger again.

"It sounds to me," Wazzock said, after Sal had told her tale, "that you have provided a great deal of service to the Imperium today. Though, it is such a pity that a fair miss as yourself would end up in such dire straits. I sincerely hope we are not pulling you into a maelstrom of danger, but if the plan pans out as it should, this shall got as smooth as buttercream...assuming Krill and Soriss were both brought to the Bilge. As I recall, one of their generals is General Lock, correct?"

Nemik grunted something like an affirmative. Wazzock sighed. He really needed to have tea with the stoat at some point and lay all their issues out on the table as the hot beverage down the throat let all cares float away.

"There's the Bilge," Nemik whispered, breaking the thoughts of tea from Wazzock's mind.

"Good, good. Sal, you may got elsewhere if you wish, but it would be my honor if you would join us in this little jaunt and rescue mission, and hopefully get something to settle your soul from the Bilge supplies. Oh, did we introduce ourselves?"

"I don't rightly think so."

"I am Captain Wazzock of the Stormchaser, the boat with the fastest clipping speed in the Imperial Navy...supposedly. And this is my First Mate, Mister Nemik Allan. Shake her paw, Mister Allan, there you go. But as for now, my name shall be Captain Cliptail and Mister Allan will be Sergeant Sourwhiskers. What is that face for, Nem? I thought those are quite good aliases to us temporarily. Anyway, if you come with us, you can be still be Sal, if you wish."

"All right." The rat maid's grip tightened on her mop.

"Fine mop by the way. Have one just like it on the ship, you know…"

Nemik cleared his throat.

"Fair enough. Let us carry forth. The crew should be nearby. If not now, very soon, and this plan shall flow perfectly."

"What's the plan?" Sal whispered.

"Well, more goals hinged by general outlines, really. But at its core, it comes down to three things: Adaptation, adaptation, adaptation." Wazzock emphasized each repetition with a light poke on the end of Sal's nose. He noted she didn't react as violently as most of his crew did when he used that form of emphasis. Rather pleasant change of pace.

He turned to the Bilge, coming up out of the fog like a creature made of wood and dirt awaiting customers. There were less Southern Army creatures than he expected. Part of him found this a pity, for he hadn't seen many of them alive yet. True, that meant his life hadn't been threatened often yet, but he still would have liked to get a good close look, whiskers to whiskers, on a neutral level. He thought he saw steam rising from the roof.

The odd trio stepped up to the door and Nemik pressed it open.

"Oi! Who are you?"

Wazzock slipped past Nemik inside, into the path of the rat walking towards them. "G'day, fellow Southerner, I am Captain Cliptail. An unfortunate name, mostly because I actually have a full tail. But how can one predict the future status of a tail when a creature is born. And this is my loyal Sergeant Sourwhiskers. He is accompanying me on this fine day to make sure all goes smoothly. We have been sent by the famed General Lock to check in on the prisoners. Who is the creature in charge?"

The rat lowered the cutlass. "Who are you again? You're not a Captain, you have got the pips."

"When the orders come direct from General Lock, there is urgency behind them. We'd like to see your prisoners, please. See what they have to present, information-wise."

"I _do_ smell smoke," another voice said, and a rather flustered weasel appeared in an inside-out jacket, Southern Captain's uniform. Her eyes narrowed. "Well, what are you lot here for? Giving me another prisoner?"

"I don't believe we have time to go through this again. The simple fact of the matter is that we are to evaluate your prisoners. A grayish rat and a monitor lizard, correct?"

"Evaluate? I'm in the middle of interrogating the rat. If you want at them, I'll need to see some requisition forms. Oh. And don't drink the grog. It's all been poisoned."

"That's a good start, Captain…" He waved his paw for the weasel to continue.

"Steep. I am going to rip the whiskers from your snout if…blast, what's going on up there, did the servant-lizard start a fire? Lilith, you—Sourface—come with me. Let's get Mr. Kriley out into the street. And don't leave that fiddle here, either. Let the rest burn."

"I'll go to check on the lizard. Sergeant Sourwhiskers, you may accompany Captain Steep. Miss Sal, please come with me." Pulling the rat maid along, he went between overturned tables and chairs to the stairwell. "Now, I am going to go up quick, you just sit right here. I shall get you a good drink after we're done here. Perhaps tea if we have time."

"Wazzock?" Sal whispered.

"Cliptail, but yes?"

"There's a bit o' smoke."

Wazzock looked up, seeing the ceiling itself steaming in an usual way. He looked over to Captain Steep, Nemik, and the rat. They disappeared through a doorway. Well, Nemik would deal with that well enough.

"Stay right here, miss. I'll go check upstairs." He grinned scampered up the stairs, two at a time. There really was a mysterious amount of smoke up here, enough to cause him to cough and place the cloth of the uniform up to his nose to try and breath steadily. He felt his other paw against the walls, until he felt an exceptionally warm door. Wazzock took a deep breath, opened the door, looked inside, then slammed it.

He considered what he had seen one moment.

Wazzock opened the door again. Fire everywhere, and at the edge of it, thrashing his legs to get away from the flames, was a familiar lizard. "Soriss, I thought that was you. Hat's not on fire, is it?"

The rat stepped into the room, pulled at the rope, "Ah, it just looks a little singed about the edges. I think it adds a bit of personality. I think we can get you out of this, I'm a bad beast at tying but untying…slightly different." The ropes fell loose and Wazzock took the hat of Soriss's head and placed it on his own. "Ah, very good. Now, can you walk, Soriss? They didn't break your legs, did they?"

Soriss's tongue flickered out, and he blinked furiously. "Nice to ssee you, Cap'n."

"Nice to see you too, Soriss. Now, we best go rather quickly." He pulled Soriss to his footclaws and helped him out of the burning room, carefully shutting the door behind him. "Now, we must get out to the street, the crew should be meeting us there."

"Why do you have a bucket, ssir?"

Wazzock glanced at the bucket, still held in his paw. "Defense," he stated. They shuffled down the stairs to where Sal was absent. He scanned the forest of tables, and finally spotted Sal edging her way towards Captain Steep, seemingly sniffing the air. Captain Steep on the other paw, seemed to be occupied instructing Nemik and the other rat on how to pull Krill, still tied to a chair, out of the hall.

"Soriss, get to the front door. I'm going to help out Mister Nemik quick. We shall be there in a second." He placed the handle of the bucket in his teeth, and got down on all four paws. It was a trick he learned as a young rattling, and it never failed to come in use at such moments as this. Usually, he used the method to find a spot in the mess hall without need of shoving; this time, it was used for stealth. He shifted under tables and around chairs, strange round dough things, bits of shiny stuff, and over unscrupulous dried puddles of unknown stuffs, until he came near the footpaws of Sal, when he rose back to two paws, taking the bucket from his jaws. He placed a digit to his snout to signal silence. She was mouthing something and pointing at Steep. Wazzock nodded and , bucket in paw, turned to the backs of Captain Steep, Nemik, and the rat.

"...the rat's the captain of the _Stormchaser_ and he's attemptin' te' steal yer prisoners right from under yer snout. Trust me, I promis-"

THWOCK.

Captain Steep fell limply to the floor after the bucket hit her head. Wazzock tipped his hat. "Good show, Mister Allan. As I always say, if ye can't figure a lie, tell a ridiculous truth. Now, we must leave, I believe the upstairs in on fire.

The weasel stirred. THWOCK.

"Also, as you know, weasels have very hard skulls. Would you please knock out that rat before she gets to her senses?" Nemik got over his own gapping and obliged, giving the rat a good solid punch across the jaw.

Wazzock saw the stunned look of a stunned ferret halfway across the Bilge floor. From the parchment on his paws, and the green cloak, the title "messenger" came to mind. "I can explain…" Wazzock began.

The ferret turned to run for the door.

Wazzock knew this was a sensitive situation, he knew that the ferret messenger as going to squeak to his superiors, he knew that the ferret couldn't get to that door or they would have the whole of Southern Beasties down on their hides. He chucked the bucket at the ferret.

Sal was staring oddly at the prone body of Steep. Wazzock tapped her shoulder. She looked up, slightly dazed. "Excuse me, miss, may I borrow this?" Wazzock asked, genteelly taking the mop from her grasp.

By this time, the bucket had bounced off the ferret's head, stunning him, but the ferret was still on his footpaws. Wazzock charged, mop extended, jumping over the Bilge debris. He homed, aimed at the ferret's twitching tail. The moppy end of the mop impacted, and Wazzock pushed the ferret towards the door, though the ferret missed the door by two paws to the left, being slammed into a mostly solid wall.

The ceiling started creaking ominously, sparks falling through the cracks. Wazzock turned to Soriss, who was standing at the door as ordered. The rat patted the lizard on snout. He would have to write some commendations later. "Could you pull this chap outside? And Nemik! Why do you have your dagger out?"

"I was jus' makin' sure that rat wouldn't report on us…"

"Mister Nemik, that was highly unnecessary. She was already knocked out. We shall discuss this later. You did not harm the weasel lass, did you?"

"No, I…"

"We must drag her out to the street before the building comes down around our ears. Understand?"

"Captain Wazzock, I gotta inst-"

"Yes, _Captain_ Wazzock. Is Krill alright?"

"Yes, Cap'n," a voice weakly called.

"Very good. Nemik, you get Krill out of here. He has obviously had a rough day. Oh, and fine job on that Cook cover, Krill. The crew gave quite glowing reviews. Now, Miss Sal, would you please help me get this weasel lass out. It _is_ Primary, but I cannot in good conscience let a beast be warmed in such a way against their will. Oh, and grab that fiddle over there. Seems like an instrument that's just been brought here. Would hate for the lass to lose something of sentimental value."

The ceiling continued to creak and now the crackling of flames became clear, smoke started billowing along the ceiling, coming lower and lower as it looked for more space to fill. By the time they got to the door, they were almost crawling backwards with the body of the weasel, coughing as they emerged into the street, soot down their hides.

Wazzock rubbed at his eyes. "Well, that was interest-"

An arrow took the hat off Wazzock's head, pinning it to the door of the Bilge. He calmly took the arrow, as he listened to the sounds of footpaws tromping towards them, from somewhere in the fog. "Victory speech later, chaps, I believe we best be going."


	22. Letters from the Front

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 21. Letters from the Front  
**

_by Gloria  
_

_My Lord Baltsar,_

I trust you are well in the capitol, and that Emperor Voss - long may he reign - is safe and of a pleasing disposition in these hard times. I have some moderately upsetting news to report: the Southern Army has taken the majority of the above-ground portion of Bouillabaisse Harbour. They have yet to infiltrate the Unsmudgable tunnels, but I suspect it is only a matter of time. We have set up a temporary base at my home in Zann's Backyard, but one of the Southern fiends that we captured escaped recently. I suspect we will have to move because of this, but I hope to take a few of the Southern rabble out before we depart. There are plans in the works, but I dare not put them here, less they be false by the time they are implemented and this reaches you.

Some intelligence that I have gathered in my interrogation of two Southern soldiers include: Priscilla Steep, Ambassador and General Steep's daughter, is part of the assault team and has set up a base at the Bilge in the Bucket. I plan to launch a counterstrike there presently. Also, the South initiated this assault not due to the Embassy Incident, but to obtain a weapon they believe we have. The soldier I interrogated said that it could level a city in one fell swoop.

My Lord, I know it is not my place to ask after the affairs of the Ministry of Innovation, but did this Southerner speak truthfully? Or is this part of your clever propaganda campaign? A fine move if the latter, my Lord. I ask only that I may be aware if there is some storage facility that I should be guarding instead of worrying over the whole of the harbour.

_May the blessings of His Grace the Emperor tumble down upon you like a golden fog,  
Captain Gloria Ruston_

P.S. I am sending word to Admiral Jelliko, but I thought to inform you as well: there is a minor issue with the Imperial Docks. Specifically, they no longer exist. There was an incident with some lantern oil and fire arrows during the initial Southern assault. Unavoidable, really, sir.

--- --- ---

_Dear Captain Ruston,_

I am delighted to report that His Grace is in fine form and temper. We have been enjoying a bit of sport the past few days. The Emperor has greatly improved his rapier technique since last we dueled. He almost managed to disarm me. Most impressive! I shall have to be more wary than usual this year when the Red Days roll around. If the Emperor is my match, then I fear the more cutthroat members of the harbour population. Also, Lord Arnold sends his regards to your husband. I trust the Blademaster is all in one piece after this disgraceful defeat you find yourself in?

I must say that it troubles me to hear that the South has taken our fair harbour. I had thought you more competent than that, Captain. However, as you appear to have the matter in paw, you are pardoned for your ineptitude at the moment. I expect you will allow no further advances toward Amarone in the coming days, though. It would be most unfortunate for you and all your kin if the Emperor were to suffer some harm while you were supposedly defending his empire from attack.

As for your question, you correctly point out that it is not your place. Kindly refrain from inquiring after matters that you have no business sticking your nose into, Captain. I require that you defend Bully Harbour - nothing more, but certainly nothing less.

As for the docks... I believe, when the war has ended, that the Ruston family will be so magnanimous as to donate a sum such that they may be restored after this 'incident.'

_Kind Regards,  
Lord Baltsar, Minister of War_

--- --- ---

_Dear Captain Ruston,_

The Fleet is recovering at Magh after fighting off fire and a sizable portion of the enemy armada.

We will prevail!

In the meantime, I have sent the fastest ship in the Imperium to aid you. Captain Wazzock and his crew have made all haste to Bully Harbour. I only hope with this 'incident' you mentioned in your letter that the _Stormchaser_ will have somewhere to land. Perhaps we need to have words about the docks, Captain... again. I have told you thrice before that you are not to damage them, whatever your opinions of boats may be. It is my sincere hope that you have exaggerated this damage.

Also, your brother asked to attach a small letter to my own message. I have allowed it.

_Good Luck,  
Jelliko, Admiral of the Imperial Fleet_

~

_Gloria,_

You're an idiot. Heard it was your whelp as got us into this mess. Mum and Da' managed to raise us right. Didn't even have to kill one of their kits off. Some mum _you_ are.

_Rudd_

--- --- ---

_Rudd,_

Did I never tell you about our older brothers Bob and Steve? _They_ were insufferable morons, too. Be wary, little brother.

_Gloria_

--- --- ---

_Dear Captain Ruston,_

I have been informed of your current activities in the harbour and I admit to some concern. Perhaps this would be the time to ask for my and MAUL's assistance in the defense of the harbour? I know you are a clever stoat who will make a most rational decision.

_Kind Regards,  
Lady Akilina, Minister of Misanthropy_

--- --- ---

_Lady Akilina,_

I will decline your assistance at this moment and ask you to kindly sod off please, Lady. I do not need the Ministry of Misanthropy sticking its scaly nose into an affair that War and Niceties are handling perfectly well. In fact, I would ask that you tell your MAUL lowlifes to quit taking credit for poisoning the rations in the harbour when it was clearly the work of my Last Quartermaster and his apothecaries.

_Regards,  
Captain Gloria Kildare-Ruston of the Stoatorian Guard, Ministry of War_

--- --- ---

_Captain Ruston,_

I am disappointed in you. But, you are in charge of the harbour defenses. I hope that there will be a Bully Harbour to come home to in the future. Oh! And such a pity about your last son. Traitors among the Kildare line? Who would have thought such a thing could happen?

_Regards,  
Lady Akilina, Minister of Misanthropy_

--- --- ---

_Lady Akilina,_

Kindly go jump off a cliff.

_Regards,  
Captain Gloria Kildare-Ruston of the Stoatorian Guard, Ministry of War_

--- --- ---

_Lord Arnold,_

I have grave news, my Lord. The Opera House, Museum, and Library have been taken by the Southern rabble. We have also lost over two hundred Unsmudgables in the initial assault. I trust Lord Baltsar has shared the information my wife sent along, but I thought I should add this: the Unsmudgables will not be beaten. We are committed to re-taking the treasures of the Imperium come Hellgates or high winds. I wish you well, my Lord.

_Your Loyal Servant,  
Blademaster Gerard Reginald Ruston_

--- --- ---

_Dear Regi,_

I know the hour is dark and the message darker, but there is no cause for such formality. How many times must I ask you to simply call me Beandish? Really, old sport! In any case, I have full faith in your abilities and wish you luck in defending the harbour. I hope you're able to control that wife of yours. Little flint and tinder, that one, eh? Heard about the fire on the docks. Bad move there, but these ladies... it seems a fine tradition in the Guard's female stoat captains to have a great appreciation for the majestic and every-changing magic of fire.

Sorry to hear about your son. I understand he was the traitor who misinformed Lady Akilina? Bad luck there. Have you got any more around? I'm afraid I've lost track of the kits these days, which is really quite rude of me. There were four of them, right? I remember that! The gel was the most recent before your son to go, aye? Ice-something. Bit like her mum, that one. Part of Kreehold, if I'm not mistaken. 'Fore they scarpered, that is.

_Cheers,  
Beandish Arnold, Minister of Niceties_

P.S. The Emperor has hired a new chef who is simply _divine_! I mean this in body and ability. Quite the ferret this girl.

P.P.S. Send my regards to the Unsmudgables. I wish I was there to rally them, but alas, I must defend His Grace.

P.P.P.S. Really, I'm quite serious about this chef. I may have found the new wife.

--- --- ---

_Dear Lord Arnold,_

As always, you must ask me another time, my Lord. It is good to know you are in rude health and that you have found a most pleasing piece of art to pass the time watching. I do wonder whether the current Lady Arnold might not take offense at your wandering eye, but then, what the ladies don't know, they can't complain about. I have passed on your words of encouragement to the Unsmudgables and they find themselves heartened. A few have even begun sketching with charcoal in the hopes of providing a new exhibit at the Museum when we reclaim it. They would like to title it: "The Imperial Docks Made Useful for Once". I don't _actually_ think their charcoal is from the docks, but it's a bit clever.

I am afraid I must report that Pylaris was my last kit. I'd hoped he would be the one to survive past 25, but my darling 'little flint and tinder' had other plans. I wouldn't be so upset save that I rather liked the lad. He had a pleasant disposition and a keen wit, much like yourself, my Lord. Still, he was a traitor, so I can understand _why_ she did it. But it's Blithe all over again. Certainly, I knew it _should_ be done (I still don't understand how he _accidentally_ managed to level the "Points of Interest" exhibit), but _having_ it done...

Such melancholy musings are best left for a conversation when both parties are actually present, though, my Lord. I wish you fortune with your pursuit of the Emperor's chef.

_Your Loyal Servant,  
Blademaster Gerard Reginald Ruston_


	23. Like Father, Like Son

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 22. Like Father, Like Son  
**

_by Nemik  
_

'The road to salvation is paved with good intentions. But it is wide and the path is broad, leading to destruction.'

-.-

_Growing up in the rougher, poorer area of the Southern Empire was never easy for anybeast. The cities were all like the Slups of Bully Harbour- crowded with hundreds of malnourished beasts who lived in shacks and worked hard to produce a meager bread crust, so that their families could eat and survive for another day. But, no matter how hard they tried, the poorer of these beasts wouldn't make it through the winter unless they resorted to… _ different_ means to support their families._

Nemik's family was no different.

A younger Nemik Allan, clothed only in the pitiful rags that his family could afford, stood in the single-room shack that was his home, his paws folded behind his back and his head bowed in shame. The stoat felt the piercing eyes of his two siblings, forced to watch what was about to happen because it was an "example" to them, and his mother, who was unable to retreat away from it because there was only one room in their tiny home. The boy's father, a stoat by the name of Caellach, paced back and forth in front of him, taking a swig from his liquor flask with every few steps.

"Of all the things…" he began, taking a gulp from the flask before continuing, "that'chu could'a stolen fer us…Yew stole this." Nemik's father produced a dagger from his belt, flipping it in his paws threateningly.

"I…I thought," Nemik tried to say.

"Yew thought what!?" Caellach yelled before dealing the kit a sharp kick in his stomach, sending him sprawling to the hard dirt floor.

Nemik yelped in pain and clutched his abdomen, struggling to not release the tears that were welling in his eyes. If he let even one pour down his cheek, then his father would call him weak and kick him again. It was already bad enough that he had been born thinner and weaker than his other siblings but the young stoat just couldn't afford another beating. The last time something like this happened, he had woken up at dawn when he clearly remembered that it had been nighttime only a few moments ago.

Nemik held his eyes clenched shut like a locked door, hoping that he wouldn't experience the familiar warm trickle on his cheek.

The stoat felt it.

"ARE YOU CRYIN'!?" Caellach yelled. "I'll give ya somethin' te' cry about!" He took a gulp from his flask.

Nemik felt his father's boot slam into his chest, not once, not twice, but three times, as he tried to curl up into a ball and protect himself from the blows.

"Stop it!" his mother, Eylia, shouted, trying to stop the drunken Caellach from inflicting any more damage. She was the only one to ever stand up for him, but it didn't matter because she always intervened when it was too late. It always ended in the same way.

"SHADDUP!" The male stoat shouted, silencing her. Then he rounded back on Nemik. "Now answer the question! Yew though' what?"

"I-I-I thought that maybe yew could sell it…or maybe use it te' help ya steal more stuff," he answered, whimpering like a dying beast. "I-I was only tryin' te' help."

The boy's father chuckled murderously. He took another swig. "Aye, an' dats yer pro'lem, Nem. Yer al'ays tryin' te' help 'stead o' actually helpin'. A dagger ain't gonna do me any good. Wot's gonna help me is money, an' food, an' water, an' booze, but yew jus' can't get that inte' that useless brain o' yers, kin ya?"

Nemik staggered to his feet. "B-but I bring in money al'la time."

"Oh really? Well, where is it?" Caellach said in disbelief. "'Cause it surely ain't 'ere." The stoat took a swig.

"It's in yer paw!"

"My paw?" Nemik's father checked his free paw and, seeing nothing, chuckled maniacally. "Hahahaha! I don' see nothin' in me paw."

"Yer other paw," the kit mumbled.

Caellach glanced at his other paw. The only thing held in it was the silver flask. Even the drunken stoat was able to figure out what his son had meant. "Are yew suggestin' that I used it on dis!?" Nemik knew what was coming. His father stumbled to the corner and grabbed "the Sword."

"The Sword" was simply a mop without the mop-head, leaving a single, thick ash stave that Caellach used in "extreme measures"- or what Nemik called, every other day. This was, in fact, the third "Sword", the others having been broken after constant seasons of punishment being inflicted on the younger stoat. The boy couldn't help but begin retreating from the drunk and into the tiny area of the shack that made up the kitchen.

"Com' back'ere, ya liddle scum!" Caellach shouted. He broke into a run- or rather, a fast, drunk stagger- and chased the stoat into the kitchen, holding the stave above him in preparation to strike.

The one thing that was good about Nemik's father being a drunk was that alcohol dulls the reflexes. Caellach didn't have time to think before Nemik stabbed him in the chest with a rusty kitchen knife.

Thud.

_The clatter of the flask and "the Sword" falling to the floor was like music to the young stoat's ears and the thud that his father's body made sounded like the Spirit in the Sky's sweet, heavenly voice, blessing his ears. Then came the gasp from his mother and the combined screams from his two younger siblings. Uncaring about the noise, Nemik crouched down and retrieved the stolen dagger from his dead father's belt. He held it in his paw and toyed with the edge, savoring the feel of the steel in his claws._

This was what his father felt like when he held "the Sword" and punished him. Powerful. Nemik smiled, exposing a gap-toothed grin.

For the first time in his young life, the frail stoat felt strong. He felt like he could take on the world and win. Nemik's abusive father lay dead at his footpaws, a pool of thick, crimson blood accumulating around his body like a lake. The boy laughed as warm tears spilled out of his eyes like geysers, unafraid of any consequence or punishment that Caellach could've thrown at him.

He turned to his mother and siblings, who were staring at him in shock, and grinned like he had gotten away with stealing the last cookie from the cookie jar. "I-I…think 'e's dead," Nemik stated, chuckling proudly. "He's dead! He's not gonna hurt me no more… He's dead!" the stoat exclaimed, trying to stop himself from doing a cartwheel in his joy.

"You…" the lad's mother began.

Savior? Hero? _ Nemik thought, his head held high as he readied himself for the first compliment he was going to have in seasons._

"…monster!"

Nemik's ears drooped and his smile fell as he realized that what she had said wasn't a compliment. "Err… W-what?"

His mother staggered to where the body lay and collapse to her knees, weeping as if it were her child lying in front of her. She turned, her sadness replaced with pure anger, and glared at Nemik. "You…killed him!"

"B-b-b-but, I thought…"

"You monster! You murderer! Killin' yer own father!" Eylia yelled, rolling the drunk's body over and yanking the kitchen knife from his chest. She pointed at Nemik with the tip of the blade. "Get out."

"B-but Mamma…"

"I said, GET OUT!"

"But 'e was goin' te' hurt me," he argued.

"GET OUT!" She readied the knife to throw it at her son, prompting Nemik to quickly make a break for the door. The stoat stumbled over what little furniture they had and fumbled with the door handle, only opening and closing the door behind him a fraction of a second before the blade embedded itself into the wooden entrance, where his head had been just a moment before.

Nemik cried.

The stoat didn't know what to think as he stumbled down the dirty cobblestone streets. He had only tried to defend himself. How was he supposed to know that he was going to accidently kill him? Caellach was an aggressive, Vulpuz-blasted beast anyway. Why did she even care if he was dead?

The stoat stopped weeping. Nemik's sadness was overpowered by anger as the ticking time-bomb inside of him went off, exploding in a hail of raging fire.

He hadn't done anything wrong. He only defended himself but he couldn't help but admit that it had felt good to drive the blade into the scum's heart. He didn't feel weak anymore. He felt wonderful, in-charge, and powerful.

He had to have more. 

Nemik was good at running. Being a criminal that was wanted for forty-eight murders in the Southern Empire and having a bounty on his head that would make Sal, her kits, and her grandkits set for life had given him plenty of practice. The first mate's footpaws thrummed against the cobblestone street of the Trenches almost twice as fast as the others, leaving him far ahead of Wazzock, Kriley, Soriss, Sal, and Beech as they all fled from their Southern pursuers.

A shrill scream behind him signaled that somebeast behind him had been shot by one of the incoming bolts that their pursuers fired at them constantly from shoulder-crossbows. Nemik chanced a quick glance backwards and saw that Sal had accidently tripped over her skirts, and that the party had stopped to help her back to her feet.

The stoat didn't stop moving. If there was one life lesson that his father had taught him, it was that "the only beast he needed was himself."

Nemik praised his luck as he set eyes on an abandoned house with its door wide open as if it was inviting him inside. He didn't need the invitation. Without a moment's hesitation, the murderer darted through the open doorway and slammed the door behind him. The stoat sat in the dark by the door, barricading it with his back, and listened for the muffled shouts to cease, indicating that it was safe to come out.

First came the sounds of Sal and his fellow crewbeasts running for their lives and then, about twenty heartbeats later, the roar of the Southerners behind them, shouting curses and death threats. A few moments later the sound gave way to silence as once again the street outside was left empty of anybeast.

Nemik sighed in relief and chuckled heartily. "Well, how 'bout that," he said to himself. "Sometimes the cowards _do_ survive."

The stoat stood up from where he sat and strode through the house's pitch black rooms, feeling his way along the walls in hopes of finding a back door. A piece of furniture caught Nemik's footpaw, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. The first mate cursed and slowly stood but something on the wooden floor caught his attention. Curious, he reached down and picked up the object with two claws and inspected it.

After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Nemik made the object out to be a tiny rounded herb, green in color and oval-shaped. He knew immediately what it was.

This was… _his_ pill.

Nemik looked around him in shock, quickly taking stock of his surroundings. He knew that the pill had belonged to him, but that meant…that this was _his_ house. The stoat had left Bully Harbour such a long time ago that he had forgotten that he once lived in the Trenches of the city. Suddenly, everything in the dark house began to look familiar to him. Every piece of furniture was the same and in its rightful place and the pots and pans hung in their usual spots in the kitchen like bats hanging in a cave. It was a wonder that nothing had been stolen.

But if nothing had changed then that meant…

Nemik staggered to one of the bedrooms and opened its door, peering inside cautiously as he did.

Sure enough the bloodied sheets of the bed were laying in the room's corner, right where he had left them before he had fled to Merith Cove. The stoat shuddered as it all came flooding back to him.

-.-.-

_"Yer pathetic," the lad muttered as he folded his newly-obtained Stoatorian Guard uniform neatly in front of him._

"Hmm… What?" Nemik asked, taking a single glance away from the latest copy of the Saturday Evening Smelt before flipping to the next page.

The younger stoat met his father's gaze and glared at him hatefully. "I said that'cher pathetic."

The newspaper dropped from his paws as Nemik turned his gaze upon him. "Pathetic? And why's that, Eliwood?"

Eliwood lifted the folded uniform up for the older stoat to see. "Do ya know what this is?"

Nemik glanced at it quizzically. He shrugged. "A Stoatorian Guard uni…" he trailed off, understanding what was wrong. "Today was yer initiation, wasn't it?"

"Aye, an' yew weren't there like yew said yew'd be."

"I'm sorry, El, I…I forgot. Work got ahead o' me and I got sidetracked," Nemik tried to explain, but to no avail.

"That's not an excuse! Yew promised me that'chu'd be there," his son argued.

"Well, maybe I would've been there if it wasn't fer the constant bills that got sent to me every month from yer Vulpuz-blasted academy." The Stoatorian Guard hadn't used to charge you to join up, but too many drop-outs from the training camp had begun to cost them too much. Now it was required for recruits to make an investment instead of wasting the recruiter's precious time. "I mean, it's bad enough that I have te' pay fer yer stupid school, without yew quittin' yer job and addin' the cost of a higher-up trainin' academy to the bill. Ya see, while yew were out getting' yer fancy uniform, I was workin' a second job at the docks so that I could pay for it fer ya," Nemik combated. "I mean, it's a wonder that'chu haven't put us in the Slups yet."

"Hmph," Eliwood grunted, "mom would'a been there, work or not."

"How would yew know what she would've done, El?" the older stoat asked. "You've ne'er known 'er. After all, yew killed 'er the day yew were born." Nemik knew he went too far with that statement. He saw the punch coming before he felt it.

The stoat slowly wiped his snout with his jacket sleeve and immediately returned the favor, leaving the lad sprawled on the floor, fresh, crimson blood pouring out of every angle of his snout like a multitude of rivers.

"Yew ungrateful, little wretch!" Nemik shouted. "I'm yer father and as long as ya live under my roof, yer gonna show me some respect!" He was losing control.

"Yer not my real_ father," Eliwood said, wiping his snout with a grubby paw._

"No, I'm not. Yer real father was a lily-livered, Vulpuz-blasted, scumbag who thought 't'would be funny if he gave yer mother you and then ran away 'cause 'e was too scared te' face the consequences," Nemik answered, not bothering to hide the rage in his voice. "And me…well it wasn't fer me, yew'd be livin' on the streets or dead in an alley somewhere."He reached down to the floor and retrieved the fallen newspaper, flipping through it quickly as rage began to develop inside of him.

"Go clean yerself up," Nemik finished. He didn't want to hurt El but if he was there a moment longer, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from killing him.

Eliwood stood, picking his uniform off the dusty floor in the process, and brushed himself off. The younger stoat, glaring at his father as he went, sauntered towards the washroom but stopped when he reached the door. "I'm goin' te' kill yew one day," he said as he opened the door and shut himself inside.

Nemik quivered in anger. He balled up the newspaper and threw it across the room, struggling not to scream out of fury. The stoat needed something to take his anger out on. He needed something that would scream in pain when he hurt it, not just a useless ball of paper that would do nothing other than float to the floor when it was thrown. He needed his dagger.

He needed his pills.

Nemik quickly jumped to his feet and ran to his master bedroom. He scurried towards the nightstand by his small truckle bed and frantically searched through the drawers, moving loose papers, coins, and anything else out of the way as he searched for the medication. Seeing nothing, the stoat ripped the drawer from the nightstand and dumped the contents over his bed. None of the round herbs were inside.

It had been a condition that he take the herbs regularly after the Fogeys and Stoatorian Guard had found out about his "problems", otherwise he'd be put into the Bully Harbour prison for not meeting the requirements of his probation. They kept his anger at bay, allowing him to relax and think about the consequences before rashly hurting somebeast or killing them in his frequent fits of rage. It had been the pills that had saved Eliwood's life on so many occasions before. But they were nowhere to be found. He had run out of the precious medication.

Nemik felt his right footpaw move towards his bedroom door, forcing his body to want to begin striding towards the house's washroom. Eliwood wouldn't see it coming. He would never expect the stoat to burst into the room, screaming like the house was on fire, and then stab him in the back, all the while shouting curses and threats. His son thought he was too pathetic to even attempt it.

He was not pathetic! His other footpaw moved in the direction of the door, prompting Nemik to quickly run to the other side of his bed and begin searching through his dresser. Surely the herbs would be there. He rummaged through the drawers as fast as his paws would allow, yanking out everything that wasn't the round, green pills.

Nemik glanced towards the door. He didn't want to hurt El, but he was just so close. He was only in the next room. All he had to do was walk inside and stab him once, and the scream would be enough to satisfy his rage. It would be so easy.

The stoat shook his head and mentally slapped himself for even thinking it. He couldn't do that. He'd be put into prison for the rest of his miserable life or hanged.

Nemik opened the top drawer and reached inside blindly, unable to see what was inside because of the height. He poked around, paws scrabbling, hoping to make contact with one of the tablets. His paw felt something else entirely.

The wonderful cold steel felt like ice in his paw as he removed the beautiful dagger from its resting space inside of the drawer. Nemik gaped at his reflection in the blade. His face was red as a tomato and a look of disbelief was plastered on his features like a stamp on an envelope. The stoat closed his eyes and when he opened them, the unbelieving expression had disappeared and had been replaced by clenched teeth and blood-shot eyes.

He chuckled and let his rage take over. 

Nemik sat on the foot of his son's medium-sized truckle bed, fumbling with the small pill in his paw. He hadn't run out of them after all. He had just…dropped one on the floor. If he had known it was there then none of this would have ever happened. Eliwood would still be alive, probably being the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard by now, and Nemik would never have had to flee from the Harbour. The stoat would have never joined the crew of the _Stormchaser, _ he wouldn't have killed Barrett or Harper, and he would never have had to come back to the ruddy town to fight the beasts he had tried to run away from.

And it was all because of one stupid pill!

Nemik wanted to kill something. He had tried, for what seemed like a lifetime, to manage without the pills, struggling to bottle in all the rage that constantly plagued his mind and body. Beasts told him that he wasn't good enough or strong enough, that he was terrible at his job of being a first mate, that they were going to kill him, that he was a coward, or that he was wrong. But no, he wasn't wrong. They were.

The first mate prayed to every deity that he had ever heard of that somebeast would step in front of him so that he could kill them. He didn't care whether it was a friend or foe as long as it could scream. He wanted to feel the energy that came from it. He wanted to feel strong again.

But he had never been strong. It was just an illusion; an alternate reality that he could only wear as a mask, which he had to take off eventually. His father had been right when he had called him weak. Eliwood had been right to call him pathetic. Everybeast was right…and he was wrong. Murdering beasts while their backs were turned hadn't made him right, or smarter, or stronger than anyone else. It had made him more of a coward.

Now Nemik knew why his father had been abusive. It was so that he could maintain the illusion. Caellach had known where he was in society and had merely wanted to feel strong among the weak. The alcohol had helped, letting him use it to run from the inevitable horrors of his life around him and escape to his fantasyland where he was the strongest, smartest, and richest beast in the world. He had just picked on Nemik because he was the weakest, the least likely to fight back.

For the first time in his life, Nemik pitied his father.

Nemik felt his head grow hot from rage as warm tears streaked down his cheek. He was pathetic. He was a coward. He was wrong.

He was exactly like his father.

Nemik clenched his fists and stood up from the bed. He stomped out of the room and through the house's kitchen until he came across a cabinet- its doors purposely made of glass so that a beast could look through it- and yanked the door open. A heavy assortment of colored bottles of alcohol, ranging from grog to wine, sat inside, waiting to be drunk. The stoat had merely bought them for decoration but he didn't care. He grabbed the first bottle that came into his sights.

His father had used alcohol to escape from the world. Nemik wanted to try too.

Without another thought, the first mate ripped off the cork and downed the bottle of the liquor. The liquid felt like fire in his throat. Nemik tossed the empty bottle aside and looked around him. He was still in the kitchen. The world was still there around him. Without hesitation, he reached for another.

Nemik gulped it down and looked around him once more. The room was blurry, but still intact. He wanted it to disappear. The stoat took hold of another bottle and then another. He kept pouring them down his gullet like he was a gutter on a city street, hoping that the world around him would vanish forever, but to no avail.

His father had done it? Why couldn't he?

One after another- so many times that the first mate lost count- the multi-colored bottles crashed on the floor into a million pieces as Nemik drank them and tossed them aside. The stoat crumbled to his knees. Panting heavily, he looked at his paw in front of him, emitting a slurred curse. Why wouldn't it disappear? He just wanted to fade away, to run away from his miserable life and go someplace better.

The stoat reached inside the cabinet and produced yet another bottle. He slowly pulled off the cork and pressed the neck of the bottle to his open, awaiting snout. He was almost there. He could feel it.

Nemik never tasted the alcohol. The stoat's body gave way before he could drink it and he collapsed into a miserable heap of fur. The world was beginning to fade away. The room flickered black on and off as his eyelids drooped shut. He groaned once and smiled heartily. He was going somewhere better.

The world disappeared.

end of week one. 


	24. You Can't Keep Lettin' It Get You Down

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week two. 

**Chapter 23. You Can't Keep Lettin' It Get You Down **

_by Pleasantrie  
_

Pip had heard of the Bilge, of course. It held a special place in the hearts of seabeasts the world over. There were finer bars and cheaper bars, safer bars and cleaner bars. The Bilge, though was a pilgrimage. It was a rite of passage. It was an honor and a requirement, on some boats, to have drank at the Bilge and been sick in the alleys behind. And, of course, a scar earned at the Bilge was worth thirty lesser bar fights.

Pip had always been passed over for the shore parties. Since he was a bird, he was either kept at sea or simply left uninvited. He'd managed to fly over it, though, to get a peek at the legendary shrine to sailors.

This time, with this invasion, he would have had a chance to actually drink. To be sick, himself, like the rest of them. It was a silly dream, but the chance to actually boast a Bilge scar, or even better, to cause one...

Those dreams were, quite literally, going up in flames.

"Huh... even poisoned grog can burn." That was all the bird could think to comment as he gazed at the conflagration.

"Breaks the 'eart, it does," Llu added, sniffing gently. "Ye know, the one thing I never got to try was an Odde Tinge at th' old Bilge bartop."

_She's still in there!_

Pip broke into a run, which soon morphed to a takeoff. The shouts of the woodlanders behind were drowned out by his own rushing pulse, a maelstrom in his ears that blocked out even that small, tiny voice that whispered.

_After all she's done to you, you're going in there?_

His reply was simple. _Nobeast deserves that._

Of course, somebeast else had to go and spoil his heroics. There was the captain, laying in a heap on the street. And a group standing over her.

"Reserves!" He called back towards his troupe, "Send a volley after them!"

He didn't bother to look to see his order obeyed, but veered in a tight spiral, before the heat of the fire caught him in an updraft. The strangers had scattered before he reached the ground.

The bird alighted next to the stunned weaselmaid. simply bent down and peered at the sodden, sooty mass. "Captain Steep? Ma'am?" He nudged her shoulder with a claw. "Captain?"

When she didn't respond, he gave her a light peck on the top of her head. And another.

As he moved in to peck her cheek, he heard a low groan.

"Pip?" The voice that escaped the formerly snowy throat was harsh and grating.

"Captain? Oh, Cap --"

"If you peck me again, I'll tear off your leg and eat it."

"A food joke, Captain? You must be fine."

"Fine?" The voice gained some strength at that word. An eye opened and focused on the bird. "Fine! Where's the grog, Pip?"

"Well, ma'am..."

The eye narrowed and a claw began to stir, moving slowly toward his leg. Pip inched backwards. "The next words," she growled, "had better be: 'right here, Captain'."

"No ma'am, I was captured and tortured. I'm afraid --"

"Torture?" The claw made another effort, this time latching onto one of Pip's toes. "Torture, you ignorant, omelette-brained messenger, is being sodden, cold, soot-covered, brained, favor-lavished, and _sober_. Torture is --"

As she continued, the woodlanders arrived around the corner. The sight of a Captain shaking the toe of a bird while cursing in a raspy voice, of course, sent more than a few into unsoldierly bouts of snickering.

"-- having your trick fiddle swapped for _art_. For trying to sub cigars for _liquor_. For having the first chance to enjoy good grog spoiled by a uniform-disrespecting _Naval Captain_ and his pal who widdles himself at the thought of a _kiss_. And, if I haven't made it clear enough, torture is suffering through all of this," her voice rose to a piercing, if throaty, crescendo, "without a drop of drink because I was burdened with a hellgates and fates-accursed entree for a messenger who couldn't reason the difference between _ale_ and _gull's water_!"

"Ruby, did you happen to still have that bottle of whisky you nicked from General Lock's little crony?" the bird kept his tone level, pointedly ignoring his superior's enraged sniffles.

"Oi, zurr burd." The reply was accompanied by deep, snorting giggles.

"I don't suppose you could volunteer its use by Captain Steep? The cogs in her head require some lubrication."

All the threats and curses did have a nice, comforting glow to them. Like being fussed over by your mother after a long absence.

"Pip..." Steep's reply was a groan as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. Through clenched teeth, she continued, "Shut your beak and tell me what's going on!"

"Contradictory orders, Captain?"

She glared, her eyes focusing pointedly on Pip's leg; the leg responded with a jump.

_Buggrit._ Pip gave little huff, then began to relate the events since his departure from the then-uncharred Bilge.

_Why does she always have to play_ that _card on me?_

~~~~~~~~

_**Just under three years before...**_

It was nighttime, Pip could tell that much. No longer were his drifts into consciousness interspersed with unbearable heat, simply a hard, cold wind that pushed his feathers the wrong way, blowing salty spray in behind his down.

He began to shiver and could feel the last of his energy being sapped from him as his body kept its tenuous hold on the waking world. Already, his head felt near to bursting and the pain in his leg had long left, leaving a raw numbness.

He swung slowly, a mottled pendulum powered by the ship's own undulations. The sound of the wind drowned out by the constant pulse that beat in his ear.

A voice cut through his hazy grip on consciousness. It was a low, mocking tone, one he'd heard barking orders many times. "Cabin bird, is it? Don't know what you did for Malachite, but you belong on a plate."

Pip could only just make out the figure, upside-down in the rigging next to him. Mind, the rigging was upside-down, too. He looked up, blinking away the crust about his eyes. The whole ship, apparently, was upside-down.

His reply was a mere croak. "Lieutenant?"

"My first real commission, Pip. My first mission after my promotion. Simple enough, you'd think. Made all the easier since we found this wonderful new messenger." As she continued, her voice went flat, as if the words were not hers. "_'He eliminates the need to betray our position and could be the Empire's answer to the vile Missertross Gull.'_"

Pip just swallowed. The events of the previous night were beginning to come back to him.

"I wrote that, you know? I remembered the gulls, and what a boon they were. I remembered you had helped Malachite and all of the stupid fuss they showed for a bird_." She spat the word. "Your stupid chitty... but I remembered! And when I heard you couldn't find work with the rest of the grass-munchers, I suggested you."_

"Lieutenant..." The bird was having trouble focusing on the floating, inverted weaselmaid.

"And then what happens? We actually _run into_ some of them! And you have to go and flub the entire mission. Getting caught in the rigging. What a great excuse for a bird _you_ turned out to be." She reached out and gave a push to Pip's shoulder, sending him spinning away from her and increasing the speed of his swinging.

The bird moaned in response.

"Wred almost died trying to get you free and get his orders from you. Then they sent me up here. Me, a lieutenant, doing a flagbeast's_ job." She hooked her legs in the rigging and reclined against the rope. With a free paw, she took out a knife and began cleaning under a claw with it. "Still half-asleep. And without the instructions you were supposed to give, of course. It's no wonder we were attacked."_

"Steep, please --"

"I'm not finished, Pip. You want to guess who they're blaming it all on? You? The incompetent Mr. Wred?"

The bird whimpered. At the apex of each swing, the rope cut into his leg further.

"No. They're blaming me. An untrained, off-duty officer_ for not knowing how common beasts do their job. I was asleep. I was intoxicated. And they chose __me_, and now it's _my_ rudding fault, oh no, not theirs, not _yours_-- mine!" She leaned forward. "Do I seem unfit for duty, Pip?"

"No, ma'am!" His reply was a grating squeak.

"No. So... I'm going to let you down, Pip, because --"

"I'll do anything, Lieutenant, ma'am. Anything, really. Please just --" he gulped back a sob and flapped his wings awkwardly, trying to arrest his rocking. "-- please get me down."

"Anything?" A corner of her mouth twitched upward, revealing the canines beneath.

"Anything! I'll..." Pip's eyes whirled, finally resting on the crow's nest above him. "I'll take the blame! All of it! Please don't let me die up here."

"Done." A paw reached out and snagged the bird on a backswing and clenched around his leg. A flick of the knife cut him loose.

She didn't let go immediately, however, but brought her arm up higher. Pip found himself face-to-face with the weasel, albeit upside-down. She growled at him. "Pip? I'm going to hold this grudge forever. And every time it seems like I may be slipping just a little, starting to warm to you just a little more, remember that warmth is just the fire of a wood stove and an empty stomach. I hate_ you and always will."_

With a grunt, she hefted him into the crow's nest. "You better be down before dawn, explaining yourself to the Captain."

Pip would be.

The rush of blood returning to his limb caused it to start jerking, softly rapping against the floor of the crow's nest

~~~~~~~~~~

"So you just left your fellow soldier to rot in the claws of your torturer?"

Pip gave a shrug and glanced around at the woodlander troupe, picking out his trio of rescuers with a nod. "Well, they could only find and locate me. Lucky even one of us got out."

"Woodlanders..." Steep muttered under her breath. She stood with a grunt and took another swig of of the whisky. "Bloody useless. What, do I have to go get Devonshire myself? At least he was a _real_ soldier."

"Well, that's just what General Lock ordered, Captain." Pip seemed to shrink in place, his feathers rustling as he shifted weight between his claws.

"What does he expect me to do? Storm Amarone on my own?"

"Well, not as such, no."

"What, then?"

"Well, Ruston Manse is where we were being held. And he gave you a unit."

Another swig of golden liquid shifted from glassy to fleshy container. "You seem to have misplaced them en route, Pip."

"I didn't."

It took a few seconds before Steep's eyes fell on the assembled beasts. Then they returned to Pip and narrowed. "You're pulling my tail. Please tell me you're pulling my tail."

He just shuffled in place.

"Woodlanders? No. No rudding way, _no_!" She began to take another drink, but caught herself mid-swig. She spat a curse, capped the bottle and turned on her heel, stalking off to a nearby building.

Pip watched her limp to a rain barrel and begin wiping the soot off of her face, muttering all the while.

"Whoi yurr be zavin' 'er, zurr bird?"

The plover glanced at Ruby, who had moved to his side. "Well..." he began, looking askance at the other woodlanders, "I could have been cited for dereliction of duty if I hadn't. What good would I be kicked out of the Empire's Navy?"

"Huh."

He could hear the mutterings. They weren't convinced, he knew, but it didn't matter all that much. The SLA needed him, so they would have to settle for a "vermin-lover".

_Besides, I owe it to her for that night at sea._

Pip glanced back to Steep. She growled and shoved the barrel over, then cursed when water and ice splashed over her boots. She moved toward the fire a few paces and bent to pick up the fiddle case. Her free paw began massaging her temples.

_And she's still my Captain._

"Need a wing, ma'am?"


	25. Brink of Disaster

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 24. Brink of Disaster **

_by Soriss  
_

They finally stopped running when their footpaws burned and Kriley's proudly straight spine dipped into an undignified slouch.

Soriss collapsed against a stone wall. He could have just topped any skipper of otters worth his salt in a hotroot soup-slurping contest, the way his chest was burning. Sal slid down beside him, her panting nearly overshadowing his.

The monitor flickered his tongue at her. "Let'sss never run again, sshall we?"

She couldn't answer, just bobbed her head and cradled it in her paws.

Soriss closed his eyes. He tried to listen to what the remarkably-not-out-of-breath Wazzock was saying to Kriley and Jibfang, but he could only think of a single warm, oily biscuit, seasoned with grasshopper wings and fresh black pepper, floating in a sea of comfortable darkness.

_Come to the light,_ the biscuit said, in a crumb-filled voice. _Follow me. Just let go..._

"Soriss! Soriss, wake up!"

Soriss grumbled and swatted lazily at the offender. Whoever was shaking him and trying to roll him over sounded like Sal -- but that was much less delicious than the biscuit. He tried to return to the floaty sea of warmth and insect-bread.

She finally cuffed him across the mug. "Wake up, ya big oaf! Th' Captain says it's important-like!"

He grudgingly lifted his head from his chest and scanned the area. Wazzock and the crew were discussing something in excited tones, and now that the good dream was gone anyway, Soriss didn't want to miss out. He rolled over onto his protrusion of a stomach, and after a few back-and-forth wobbles, he was unsteadily on his feet.

"Coming?" he asked Sal.

She shook her head, hugging herself. "'S too cold away from th' fire." The rat ducked her head; Soriss heard a grin in her next words. "'Sides, I want t' jist _watch_. Th' Captain, I mean. An' there's th' other one too, with th' glasses." She wriggled her whiskers and gave him a _look_. "Don't ya _dare_ tell 'em!"

"I...won't?" He had no idea what she meant. _Femalesss._ "Be back ssoon."

Waddling to the cluster of crewbeasts, he slipped between Jibfang and the ferret messenger they'd picked up from the Bilge, who still had sizable lumps on the back and front of his head where he'd been hit with a bucket and a mop, respectively.

"It's the most logical thing to do at this juncture," Wazzock was saying. He pointed at the ferret. "Mossbeard here says he can get us into the mansion..."

Soriss moved his eyes left. The ferret most certainly did _not_ have a beard, nor was there anything moss-like about him except for the color of his uniform. A false name? But then the monitor thought of moss again, and the idea of a moist moss salad with hazelnut slices, and he started drooling.

"...and if we can exchange pleasantries and then team up with Miss Gloria...I mean, Captain Rusty, I daresay it would be a beneficial arrangement. Ahh! Soriss, mate, come to join us?"

Twitching with ill-concealed surprise, Soriss nodded at Wazzock. "Yesss, ssir."

"Well, good. You're part of the crew too, daresay. A valuable member. And a right smashing job in your assignment. Got right into the very infrastructure of the Southern Army operations. From what Miss Sal told me, you've been a right courageous beastie."

Jibfang gave Soriss a not-so-friendly elbow in the ribs. "Gonna get us some food, lizard?"

"Aye! That would be most excellent!" Holding his tricorn against his head, Wazzock came over to clap Soriss on the shoulder. "I'll send a few with you, just to see what you can obtain from these sundry abandoned dwellings. There should be plenty of food -- maybe even a spot of fine drink. Like tea or strawberry fizz..." He paused, then added, "...or grog." This raised a cheer from the crew. The rat captain's eyes glazed over as he smiled beatifically. "Ahhh, what I wouldn't give for a few crisp crusts and a good honey to dip 'em in."

Get food; that was simple enough. Soriss shrugged away from all the physical contact, bowing a little. "Any requesstsss?"

Chaos ensued:

"Grog an' fish!"

"Sumfin' wot 'as carrots! Ah miss carrots!"

"Biscuits! Right quick!"

"Pie! Pie! Pie!"

He skittered away, not waiting for Jibfang, Sunyl, and Sasha the wildcat to follow him. Rough paws clutched at his arm, and he glanced down to see Sal.

"Can I come with ya? Iffen they start askin' me things, I'd be of a mind t' run straight into th' nearest wall!"

Still confused, but glad to have Sal's familiarity along, Soriss nodded. They progressed cautiously back the way they'd come, with Jibfang and Sasha providing protection on either side of the little party and outside of any house they entered. Sunyl found a house with sufficient bounty to take back, and Sasha went with her, so soon the party was down to three.

Soriss's blood felt colder than usual as they approached the next house -- the windows were chipped or completely missing, the door listed on its hinges, and the whole place had an air of death around it. The monitor was sure it wasn't the fault of the fires.

He kept close to Sal as they crept up to the door. Jibfang nudged it open, glanced around inside, and nodded. "Arright. Yer good. I'll be out here if'n ye need me."

Soriss gulped. He felt Sal's paws clutch his elbow tighter as together they shuffled in. Sal let out a squeak. "Ouch!"

"What'sss wronggggahhh!"

Sal had jumped onto one of his footclaws with all her weight, whimpering. "There's glass in m' footpaw!"

Soriss looked down. What little moonlight there was caught the colors of a thousand colorful pieces of glass, scattered like a tiny vicious rainbow across the floor. Liquid oozed in the cracks between them. The lizard's heart skipped as he saw the dark figure in the shadows ahead of them, and he pushed Sal behind him.

"Sstay here," he said. Squaring his shoulders, he approached what he now saw was a bed.

The figure sprawled across the bed did not move; still, Soriss's whole body was prepared to whirl and run. He reached out a shaking claw and poked the creature on the shoulder.

It slithered into a furry heap at the foot of the bed. Soriss jumped, the breath startled out of his lungs; then, he saw the creature's face in the moonlight.

----

Jibfang seemed excited about the prospect of Nemik's death -- he even agreed to carry the stoat's dead body back while Soriss and Sal soberly carried armfuls of plundered food. The monitor tried to distract himself by planning how he would make the meal with only his knives (which he would need to retrieve from Kriley) and a fire.

His mind kept wandering to the corpse in Jibfang's paws, however. Why was Nemik dead? There was no mark on him -- nobeast had stabbed him or broken his neck. It was probably poison. He sniffed at the food in his arms, but his well-trained nostrils detected no hint of ill will.

_At leasst one good thing came out of that sstinking poisson-tesster'sss job,_ he thought. Then, with a wry smile: _The Emperor would be sso proud._

Wazzock took the news with a glint of sadness in his beady eyes. "Well, chaps -- and chappesses, it appears that Mister Allan has left our complement to chat with the Dark Lord Vulpuz," he said, removing his hat and doing a half-bow towards Sunyl and Sal. "But, as we are in a war, and we can't do without a foundation of leadership, I suppose the time has come to appoint a new first mate." He swept the gathered creatures with a flourish of one paw. "I aim to choose somebeast who will serve me loyally. Mister Allan, I believe, was as loyal a beast that I ever would run into in this old Imperium. Steady chap, not afraid to say what was on his mind -- though admittedly a little grim about the whiskers at times. Anyway. I want a loyal crewbeast, a stalwart chap who isn't afraid to stick his neck out for his crew, but who knows when to retreat. He's got to have brains, agility of the mind, you see. Leadership skills, a bit of fight in him...mmm, what else. I...want somebeast who...has a different viewpoint than my soggy one."

Jibfang was standing a little taller as the captain surveyed the potential candidates. Soriss glanced around at the others. Most seemed disinterested -- probably certain that they were not getting the promotion. But where was Kriley?

Soriss spotted the rat, whose head was completely immersed in what appeared to be a bucket of water. The monitor rolled his eyes. _Doessn't know what'sss coming for him._

"Where's Kriley? I know I saw him about just lately. Ah well, I know that he is a fantastic bosun, and I would hate to jar anybeast from their disposition. In that case, I choose...Soriss."

Eager to start the cooking he was inevitably assigned, the monitor turned and saluted. "Yesss, capta -- _what_?"

Every crew member was staring at him, many with jaws slack. Soriss's claws went numb. "S-s-s-ssir?" he managed to gasp out.

"Indeed! Congratulations, my fine lizard friend, you are now the first mate of the _Stormchaser_, and in charge of her fine crew when I am otherwise occupied." Wazzock was positively beaming.

Three long, slow blinks later, Soriss sat down hard in the mud. The malevolent whispers began immediately.

Wazzock knelt beside him. "You can handle this, right?"

For the first time in his life, Soriss said what he knew someone did _not_ want to hear. "No, ssir."

"Excellent!" The rat jumped to his footpaws. "That's what I wanted to hear. Means I've chosen well, see."

He left Soriss sitting in the soggy, cruel slush and waved for the _Stormchaser's_ crew to follow him. "Let's go find Captain Rusty!"

Soriss stifled a sob. This would kill him. No more cooking? Ordering others around? Taking _charge_? He squeezed his eyes shut and hoped it was a bad dream. A nightmare. To top it all off, Wazzock trusted him. Expected things of him.

The monitor shuddered, feeling eyes on him. He looked up to see Kriley standing alone, paws loose at his side, glasses askew, and water still dripping from his muzzle.

Soriss didn't wait to hear what the rat had to say to him. He gathered himself up and stumbled after the crew, which was trailing Mossbeard inland.

"Wait for me! _Beetlesss!_ Waaaait!"


	26. Saving Private Devonshire

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 25. Saving Private Devonshire **

_by Steep  
_

Fabric rustled and flashed in the flickering light of the inferno down the street. Steep tugged her uniform jacket on, pulled the folds across her chest and buttoned them with swift precision, all the way up to her throat. She slid her cigar case neatly into the front pocket.

She snapped her belt into place, pawed briefly at her sabre to confirm its position.

She sat down on the fiddle case and held her boots back on with a faint squelch. Her footpaw broke through the half-melted sole and the boot ended up halfway up her leg. She pulled it off and tossed it over her shoulder. Pip squawked.

She sat up and tugged her beret firmly around her head, wincing as the brim scraped the blood-matted bruise behind her ears.

She gave herself a horrifying little grin.

"Right, then," she said, turning about to survey her—for lack of a better term—troops. "Let's march. On the double, now."

The ranks of woodlanders didn't stir a paw. Steep took a step forward, ready to draw her sabre and slap the nearest one across the face—simply out of instinct more than because she was annoyed by their hesitation.

The mole, Ruby, raised a paw. "Whurr to, marm?"

"That's 'Captain', s...soldier." She growled to herself. Didn't feel right, calling a woodlander that. Rubbish little grass-muncher pacifists!

"Whurr to, Currptin?"

Steep winced. _Okay... that one can use "marm" from now on._

The weasel turned around and stared down the road beyond Pip's cringing shadow. She had a regiment now, she could chase off after those scum... Hunt them down, rend them to bits, _bite_! But no, she had Orders, and she was in no position to be disobeying them.

Curse Lock and his foolish single-mindedness. If only her orders were "do what you see fit to secure the Harbour"—those rats would be in for a surprise. Sneak up on a weasel, would they?

"North," she said at last, pointing at the stars above. "Return to Market Square and go north-east, into Zann's Backyard. We'll have to take cover along the way. Pip!"

The plover limped closer, sleepy-eyed and haggard.

"Captain?"

"Has Lock pushed into Zann's Backyard?"

"A little, I think. He was focusing on holding Market Square last I heard, then pushing south to Satire Square."

"Fan-bloody-tastic." She took a deep breath and began, "COMpan–"

"May I, Captain?"

Steep's shoulders sagged. "Fine."

Pip puffed himself into sphere of feathers. "COMpanyyySteep'sSuicidals... _march!_"

She glared down at him.

"'Suicidals'?"

"Lock's idea."

"Figures."

Steep tried not to be impressed as the woodlanders turned smartly and began stomping through the streets in front of her. They were on beat. They moved at a smart clip. They carried their halberds and blades _correctly_. It made her want to spit.

Pip dropped back a pace or two, hopping over the glob that landed in his path.

The three woodlanders who had rescued Pip had been placed in the rear row, so that Steep could drill them on the best way to get through to Ruston Manse.

It felt good to have a real mission again. For about three minutes.

Then she whimpered.

~*~*~*~*~

"Cap—Captain Steep!"

"Major Darcy." Steep nodded to the rat, never breaking her stride. Up ahead, her regiment was pushing through Market Square, ceaseless despite the chaos that was the Southern Army's organization attempts.

"General Lock wants–"

"I know what General Lock wants. Tell him I'm doing it now, sir."

Major Darcy shuffled after her, whiskers twitching.

"Your terseness, Captain, shall be noted!"

"Good!" Steep shouted, whirling on him. She put down the fiddle case. "Note it, sir! Report it, sir! Because, sir, I am _on a mission_, sir! Let me just dr—just stop and have buns and—and some tea and a nice chat with you and General Lock, shall I, sir, and let's let—leave Private Devonshire to fester in the—in the—in Ruston's dungeons, sir?"

Major Darcy stumbled back and sat on a curiously convenient crate. He stared dumbly into the weasel's mad eyes. Blood dripped down her face from the welt along the bridge of her muzzle.

"N–no, I suppose not. On your way, then, Captain. Er, do you need boots?"

"Thank you, Major, but I will do fine without them for the time being." Her eyes swiveled down at the crate beneath him. She pointed to it. "I missed dinner, though. Can I have some of those?"

He slid off and lifted the lid. A burlap bag was procured and exchanged between them. Steep saluted.

"General Scott gave me this," she added, kicking the fiddle closer to the Major. "I would be most grateful if you could see to it that it is placed with whatever became of the rest of my belongings."

"I shall have somebeast see to it, Captain."

"And this," she added, passing over the bottle of whisky. Her voice cracked. "Please."

Major Darcy took it from her. He uncorked it, and holding his arm out, tipped it upside-down. He kept his eyes firmly on her face. Steep watched the amber liquid seep into the cobblestones.

"You are welcome, Captain," the rat said.

Steep saluted again. Darcy saluted back and pivoted stiffly, marching away with the fiddle.

It took a minute or two for Steep to see clearly again. She wiped her eyes with the back of her paw and breathed in deep a few times. She returned to her regiment, which had stopped upon realizing she'd languished behind. They'd been watching.

"Should I tell him that was actually his whisky, Captain?" Pip said.

"Shut up."

~*~*~*~*~

Steep estimated the time to be nearing midnight. It was hard to tell—she had no idea how long she'd been knocked out for. But the Bilge had still had patches of wall and roof that _hadn't_ been on fire, so it couldn't have been that long.

The stars and moon offered light just enough to see by. Yesterday's fog was all but gone. It was a perfect night for sneaking around. It just _felt_ right. The chill air puffing out of noses, the crisp leafy crackle of snow under their paws...

When she glanced behind her, Steep could have sworn the lights bobbing around in Market Square gave off a blue tinge.

Her mother had once put off a ball for two weeks, waiting for just such a night.

_"Standards, Priscilla,"_ the elder weaselmaid had said. _"Nobeast expects to go to an ambassador's ball on a muggy autumn night, or if there's clouds. A good, bright moon, and air to chill your lungs. Crystal. Everything must be made of crystal. It's what's expected."_

It had been a good ball, Steep remembered. It was when she had met Pylaris.

"Your orders, Captain?" The squirrel, Tzama, said, saluting.

They stood at an intersection, the road splitting off three ways into Zann's Backyard.

_Crunch, crunch, munch_, said Steep. She shoveled another fried grasshopper into her mouth and chewed quickly, savouring as much as she could of the honey glaze and the peanuts that squirted out of its hollowed-out abdomen before she swallowed again. Pip bobbed his head towards her; she yanked the sack of delicacies out of his reach.

"First," she began, "No shooting anybeast without my say-so. I don't need this mission scrubbed up. We stay quiet, we—we stay out of sight, we do _not_ alert them to our presence in any way, am I clear? Pip, what kind of flowers were there in the garden?"

"Um, I don't know. Roses? Can I have a bite? Please?"

"No. Is there anybeast allergic to flowers?"

A mouse raised a paw.

"Seriously? That is... that is the most wimpy allergy I've ever heard about. Go wait back at the barracks. The rest of you, split into groups. Tzama, take nine, Llu and Ruby, take eight. I'll take Pip and the rest."

"Just one?" Pip said, wobbling closer. "I've barely had anything to eat... I was tortured... please, Captain?"

"Will it shut you up?"

"Yes!"

Steep tossed him a grasshopper and clipped the bag to her belt. "That's it and no more, or they'll hear you crunching a mile away."

The battered plover looked so happy with the snack in his beak that Steep doubted he would mind at this point if he found himself plucked and roasted on a Giftsgiving spread.

The plan was simple enough: whoever made it alive to Ruston Manse would take stock of the defenses, make note of what lights were on in what rooms, and wait until Steep had arrived, whereupon she would listen to their reports and come up with a _real_ plan of action. One that, she hoped, would involve sending all the woodlanders rushing through the front door while she and Pip dragged Devonshire out through some back way. But more like than not, she would have to come up with a strategy that didn't involve mass sacrifice. Just to spite Lock's naming conventions.

She consoled herself with the idea that, if she did well enough on this mission, Lock would give her a proper regiment. Not trouble-makers and dimwits. Not woodlanders. Not leftovers. Not... Pips. _Real_ soldiers.

She could do this. Yeah.

"Pip, fly overhead and keep me updated on the others. And don't give me any of that 'boo-hoo I was just tortured' rubbish. You can fly. That's what you're here for."

Pip bobbed his head and took off. Steep directed the eight or so woodlanders to spread out on either side of the street and advance with caution. This time, she took the lead. Paranoia be damned; the only beast she could trust to weasel forth was herself, and she wasn't about to let some bumbling blind mole smack into a fence and bring half the Stoatorian Guard down on her head. By the time any of the woodlanders did something stupid—and that was inevitable—she'd be so deep in enemy territory that–

Hold on. What was that?

Rather, _who_?

It was a pine marten. It was a male, judging by the clothes. He had one arm in a sling and held a shovel in the other, which was strong evidence against him being Private Devonshire. If that cravat-fluff ponce ever touched a shovel he'd still be whinging about it a week later.

But judging by the way he was swaggering down the middle of the street as if he owned all of Zann's Backyard, there was still a good chance...

Steep unclipped her sabre, but did not draw it from its sheath. Her position behind a random lawn shrub was secure; she could only hope the rest of her regiment had the sense to stay behind cover.

She let him pass by.

And then she nipped out, dashed across the street, and whacked him across the back of the head with the hilt of her sabre.

He fell like a lovesick stoat. She would know.

She kicked the shovel away and turned him over onto his back, revealing his uniform to be that of the Wotfer mercenaries. Steep growled. She was fine with the idea of mercenaries, in general. But when you had a group of beasts who operate in a very specific way, under a very specific mode of government, on a very specific part of land belonging to a very specific country, you could be pretty darn sure that they would be more concerned with where future money was going to come from more than just what current money was being offered.

She straddled his chest, pinning his good arm down with her footpaw, and punched him as soon as his eyes flickered open.

"Bloody—! What was that fer? Oh," he added, upon seeing her uniform.

"Captain Wright?" she asked.

"How do ye know my name?"

"It's embroidered on your pocket."

He paused for a moment. "Right. And yer Priscilla Steep, the ambassador's daughter. I'm sorry."

Her ears flicked, truly put off her guard.

"What for?"

"What my predecessor did to yer face."

She punched him again, then grabbed him by the lapels, lifting his head and shoulders off the cobbles, before pushing him back down with a solid crack. He groaned, but offered no resistance.

"He didn't do anything to my _face_, you mongrel," she spat.

"Look," he said, licking his lips. "What do ye want from me? An apology? I killed him—is that it? Ye wanted revenge?"

"This isn't about that. I'm just here for my soldier."

"Ruston's pet," Wright said. "Good luck with that."

"Her... pet?"

"She's got him pampered up in one o' the guest rooms, sends him food, baths, posh clothes, wine—Puh! Everythin' but my sister."

Steep trembled. Devonshire... pampered by Ruston? Food, baths, wine? While _she_ nearly froze to death in a trashed tavern all this time? She could just imagine the smarmy little blighter, drawling his exploits all over Ruston's servants' rapt ears, sipping from tiny little glasses with—with his little pinky claw sticking out! And a warm bubble bath with squeaky ducks! And trays of food with creme-filled pastries and wine-basted fish fillets and buns with proper _Imperium_ butter, the good stuff that you could mold into shapes before eating, topped off with a nice cold tankard of Ruston's private stock, the stuff Pylaris wouldn't even nick for fear of losing his tail...

"Rrr_rrraaagh_!"

"Stop hittin' me!" Wright shouted. Steep massaged her paws and grunted. "'Gates..."

"I've got a proposition for you, Wright," she said, trying—with difficulty—to keep her voice level and low. "We _own_ Market Square now, righ—yes? We'll have broken into the bank soon, I imagine. We'll make you a very, very rich marten if you'll help me."

"I'm listenin'."

"Go to Ruston Manse–"

"Yes..."

"–and do whatever you can to ease the defense on Devonshire's room."

"Got it."

"Do I have your word?"

"We usually work by contracts, but as I owe ye this... yes, ye have my word."

Steep climbed off him, offered her paw. He wasted no time taking it and huffing back to his footpaws.

"Give me a few minutes, okay?" he wheezed. "I need to make sure I didn't swallow any teeth. Or break my other arm."

She nodded. He turned away, stooped to pick up his shovel, and limped back up the street. Steep waited until he was obscured by the darkness before speaking up again.

"Heard all that, did you, Pip?"

"Most of it, Captain." The plover shuffled out from behind a rosebush where he had landed earlier. "Are you really going to trust him?"

"As much as I trust you," she replied.

"Oh," he said, perking up. After a few seconds, he deflated again. "Oh."

Steep gave a low whistle, and the woodlanders poured out of the darkness to gather around her.

"Slight change of plans," she announced. "Just a bit."


	27. Fun and Games

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 26. Fun and Games **

_by Seth  
_

_Dear Sadie,_

The most awful tortures have been heaped upon me since my capture. But fear not sweet one, I haven't revealed any of our Empire's precious secrets. Like the fact that the Emperor has an extra toe on his left paw that brings him luck, or that my Captain wets her bed at night and has to bribe her maid to not tell anyone. Imagine the scandal if they knew that our Emperor is only half the size he ought to be and that it's illegal for any of his servants to be taller than him!

In Seth's opinion, being rescued from a dark, dank, dreary dungeon was a very good thing. Especially when there were strange little insects that wriggled in the corners of your cell, and the food that got pushed in under the door was either stale and dry or damp and moldy.

However, when your country's army made it its personal business to beat you senseless every day for simply being you, capture and captivity by the enemy didn't seem nearly so bad. Especially when said enemy's holding cells consisted of well-heated, well-lit rooms with feather beds, velvet curtains, rich mahogany floors, and thick rugs that may or may not have been partially made from the fur of woodlander dibbuns.

The attractive ferret maid who was in charge of keeping his room clean and making sure his door was locked wasn't a bad feature either.

Seth leaned back against the wall and watched her. She was straightening the pillows on the bed and making them fall just… so.

"You really don't have to bother," Seth said. "I'll only mess them up again in a few minutes."

The ferret looked up at him with a coy smile. "I suppose I'll have to return tomorrow then."

Seth shrugged and leaned his head back against the wall with a lazy smile. "All that work walking back and forth, seems like such a waste. What did you tell me your lovely name was again?"

She straightened and leaned back, a paw on her hip. "I didn't," she said, "but since you ask, it's Feypura Seelsock. Fey for short."

"Fey, darling, I could save you a lot of walking trouble."

Fey eyed him. "Oh? How so."

Seth smiled and motioned around the room. "Why, stay with me, of course. I'm actually quite nice for a Southerner."

The ferret maid tapped a claw against her mouth and fluttered her eyelashes.

"That's a very tempting offer, Lord Devonshire --"

"Call me Seth, do."

"--But I'm afraid my betrothed might be opposed to the idea."

Seth pushed himself away from the wall and walked towards her. "I'm sure he'd merely be a minor detail."

Fey giggled. "Yes, Julian Hyde is definitely a minor detail, only he's a wee bit taller than you and quite a bit um… broader shall we say."

Seth stopped mid-step. "He's one of those bar tenders?"

"Doctor actually."

"Jealous type?"

"Only when he has a headache."

"Protective?"

"He only follows me home on weekends."

"Good with a weapon?"

"I think he's won around twenty duels."

"Thank you Miss. Seelsock," Seth said, motioning towards the door. "I think that'll be all."

As she brushed past him towards the door, Seth caught the faint scent of perfume. It reminded him faintly of jasmine and he frowned in thought. Not bad, not bad at all. He should take some back to Sadie when he returned.

_Through my valiant efforts, my fellow comrade who was also captured has managed to escape. I can only hope that he has taken the opportunity to inform my commanding officer of my plight. With luck I may be rescued in a month or two. Until then, I must languish here and try to withstand the torments of my captors._

As the door closed Seth sighed and shook his head. Gloria Ruston's house was everything he could wish for in luxury and richness. And even though he was allowed almost anywhere he pleased during daylight hours, being escorted by Hinkly everywhere he went was not exactly freedom of movement.

Seth slouched over to the bed and threw himself down tossing one of the pillows into the air and catching it as it came down.

Seth slouched over to the bed and threw himself down, tossing one of the pillows into the air and catching it again.

"It's not as though she had to _tell_ him," he remarked to no one in particular. "After all, I'm not _that_ bad looking, even with bruises. In fact, most of them have healed quite nicely."

A faint knock came at the door.

Seth sat up straight. Had she come back?

"Come," he ordered.

The door opened and Hinkly entered bearing a small silver tray with a crystal decanter perched precariously upon it next to a faceted shot-glass.

Seth sagged. "What do _you_ want?"

"Lady Ruston requested that I bring you some light refreshment to help you sleep."

The marten glared at him and then shrugged. "Is there alcohol in it?"

"I believe brandy is so prepared, sir."

"Than give it here."

Seth took the glass Hinkly poured and downed it quickly. It was only as the burning liquid settled in his stomach that he realized a new scent to the drink. He dropped the glass with a start and whirled on the stoat, the crystal shattering as it hit the floor.

"You're trying to poison me!" he said accusingly. He could feel the blood rushing away from his face.

Hinkly sneered. "Hardly," he said. "Lady Ruston only had me put some valerian in it. It relaxes one and helps one sleep. She thought that after your rather... ahem... restless night that you might enjoy some peace."

"Oh," said Seth, relaxing, "that's alright then. Any more?"

Hinkly snorted. "It would appear you broke the glass."

Seth growled and snatched the bottle away from the stoat. "Go away," he said. "I don't like you."

"The feeling is mutual." Hinkly growled back, and then turned and left the room.

Seth took a swig from the decanter and curled up on the bed resting his head on the pillow and cuddling the alcohol to his chest.

_Don't worry too much dear Sadie, I shall prevail against all odds and return to your side as soon as may be. Wait for me._

Seth Devonshire Esq'

Slowly, Seth half undressed and pulled the blankets around him. As he relaxed back into the soft mess of feather pillows his eyes drifted shut and the bottle slipped out of his paw and began pouring its contents out over the bedding, staining it a dark yellow-brown.

* * * * * * * * *

"Devonshire!"

Seth muttered and curled up tighter.

"Gowaymummy."

For a moment there was silence and Seth smiled sweetly and cuddled down in the warm covers.

"I'm not your mother, now get your tail out of bed!"

Something struck him upside the head and Seth moaned and struck back feebly, getting his paws tangled up in the covers.

"."

"Devonshire!"

"Stoppit!" Seth said at sat up straight, staring around wildly. "No! I won't and you can't make me go away!"

"Shut up you idiot, you'll call the whole Stoatorian Guard on us! Keep it down!"

Seth's head jerked around and for a moment, marten and weasel made eye contact.

Then Seth yelped and scurried backwards on the bed.

"You're not Fey!" he screeched, falling off the other side.

"Really? That's not what you said last time," Steep said dryly and ran around the bed to where Seth was sprawled on the floor, his legs tangled up in blankets.

He looked up at her with a puzzled expression.

"What are you doing here?"

"Rescuing you, Private."

Seth crossed his arms and glared at Priscilla, shaking his ear out of her grip. "I don't want to _be rescued_," he said. "I'm quite comfortable here, no one's kicked me in the past twenty-four hours and I've eaten better here than in some of the best houses in the Southern Empire."

"Devonshire, Pip was nearly killed finding this room. Several other beasts are probably dying as we speak, not to mention your guard friends out in the hall. I myself have put life and limb on the line for your safety, compromised my own-- you know what, here's this: Unless you want me to tell the entire army that you wet the bed when you sleep, you _will_ move out!"

Seth blanched white and stared at the bed. Yellow-brown stains stared accusingly at him. He frowned.

"I never did!" he protested. "The brandy must have spilt!"

Priscilla pulled out a crossbow Seth had seen one of his guards holding the day before, and held it on him. "I don't have time for this, Private, I said move!"

Seth snorted and glared at her.  
"_You're_ the bed-wetter, Captain!" he snarled. "Besides, you're probably drunk which means you're seeing two of me. Somehow I'm not intimidated."

Pip's head popped in the window. "I can get you another bolt, Captain!" He sounded overly excited at the prospect.

Priscilla waved the crossbow at him. "There. I've got two shots, now. One. For. Each. Of. You. Now move!"

Seth glared at Pip. "Why is _he_ here?"

Pip perched on the windowsill. "Aim for the legs, Captain," he suggested. "We could say he was wounded during the escape."

"Shut up, Pip."

Seth scrambled towards the door. "I'll call Gloria and she'll save me!" he snarled. "I don't want to go back! Everyone's mean to me!"

The weasel stepped forward and grabbed the collar of Seth's shirt and pulled him down to eye level with her. "Look, Devonshire," she hissed. "Lock just issued me a regiment of woodlanders. You are the only vermin left at my command and by the _Fates_ I am going to command you, even if I have to kill you and put strings on you. _Is. That. Clear_."

Seth blinked. "I'm in a regiment of woodlanders?"

"Unfortunately."

Seth straightened up and adjusted his vest. "Captain Steep, Private Devonshire reporting to duty."

Steep nodded. "That's Lieutenant Devonshire, now. I'm not going to have _grass-munchers_ above my one proper soldier. Now... _move_!"

Seth paused. "Does this mean that _I_ get to kick other beasts around?"

"I can demote you, you know."

"Right." Seth looked around the floor. "Just one thing."

"What!"

"Can I put my trousers on?"

As Seth hauled his clothes back on he watched as Priscilla eased the door open. Pip had now hopped into the room and was peering around the door with the weasel.

"What're you looking for?" Seth asked pulling his boots on.

"Mr. Wright." Pricilla snapped.

"Ah. Is now really the best time for that? I heard General Scott..." Seth paused as Steep slowly turned her head to glare at him.

"Would you like to continue Devonshire?"

"Em, no come to think of it… I think not."

Priscilla eased the door open further and the trio slipped into the hallway. In the distance they could hear shouting and the occasional clang of metal on metal.

"What's that?" Seth asked.

"Probably Ruston's lot fighting the blasted woodlanders." Steep growled. "_Shhhh_... we're going to go out the back way."

"Do I really have to go?" Seth whined. "I could be useful, staying here and picking up odd information."

"Oh really?" Steep said. "What did you hear? I'm _just so curious_... do go on."

"Em well… Lady Ruston can't open jars well… and em… Lord Ruston Gargles and chases one of the maids… er…oh! And Lady Ruston wears glasses when she thinks no one's looking."

The Captain stared at him. "How is _that_ useful information?"

Pip pitched his voice up in a mocking imitation of Seth. "Maybe I can steal her glasses, Captain. Or open her jars -- it's such _torture_ to go without jam, you know."

"Both of you-- shut _up_." Priscilla growled. "I'm bloody _amazed_ we haven't run into more guards since finding you, Devonshire..."

Seth followed as she led them down one hallway than another.

"Did you have to decapitate _all_ the guards?" Seth asked, trying to keep his stomach from revolting. "There are a lot less messier ways to do things."

"Don't worry, Private. Soon enough we'll have you back to camp. Maybe we can find yer mommy for you, then."

Seth glared at Pip. "I can still eat you," he snarled.

"Next beast who talks gets privy duty for a month."

They fell silent as Steep led them through the hallways of Gloria's house. The sound of fighting slowly growing louder.

"Shouldn't we be heading away from the fighting?" Seth asked.

"That's a month of privy duty, Devonshire."

"I'm a lieutenant now, I'll delegate."

"Like Hellgates you will, Lieut--"

They rounded a corner and Seth ran into Steep's back as she skidded to a halt. Standing in the center of the hallway between them and the back door was Lady Ruston herself with a guard at her back. Weapons drawn and ready.

"...Mr. Pleasantrie! Ye've come back! And with a flock of yer friends in tow. I'm terrible flattered ye wanted t'introduce me, but it's a bit rude t'be bringing all these creatures t'my house after ye scarpered off without s'much as a by-yer-leave."

Gloria smiled sweetly. "And ye've come t'collect Lord Devonshire, I see. Leaving without a word of thanks, m'Lord? Bit unkind."

Seth blinked and looked at Priscilla. "What's your plan now Captain?"

Steep looked hard at Gloria. "Kill her?" she suggested.

"That's a bit rude. What would yer dearly departed mum say, Prissy?" Gloria purred. "Especially since I treated Lord Devonshire with such kindess. In fact, over the past day or two, I've come t'think quite _fondly_ on the lad."

Seth swallowed as the stoat raised seductive eyes towards him. "It would've been s'fine t'get t'know him... more intimately."

Steep choked on something. "Sure-- in the Dark Forest, Ruston!" Then she charged, crossbow and sabre both drawn and ready. The bolt took out the guard as Gloria dodged. Steep threw the bow aside and crossed swords with Gloria.

"--_not... fail_! Pip, get Devonshire out!"

Seth felt the bird peck him sharply and was then herded around the fighting females.

"What if she needs help?" he asked as the bird pushed him out the door and down the steps.

"I doubt it," Pip growled "Steep's got two paws to her one. This way now, around the house. We've got troops waiting for us there."

Seth followed the bird as Pip scurried around the house. He could still hear the sounds of Steep and Gloria fighting. He swallowed and risked a glance back. That look Lady Ruston had given him…. Perhaps it wouldn't be amiss to return someday and see if it was more than just that.

"Seth!"

Seth jerked around. Pip was standing next to a mouse and a squirrel.

"This is Llu and Tazma, they'll take you to safety, stay with them!"

"Where are you going?"

Pip swallowed. "My duty is to my Captain, and I intend to see if she needs any assistance."

"Don't bother, Pip."

Seth jumped as Priscilla appeared beside him. "Don't do that!" he yelped.

"Shut up, Devonshire. Lets move!"

She put her paw on the back of his head and pushed as they ran towards the hedge that surrounded the Ruston manor. Tall iron gates stood in the center looking stubbornly immovable.

"How're we getting out?" Seth inquired.

"We cut a bit through the hedge," the mouse said. "We'll get out through there. Captain Steep, we've had three losses and the rest are still providing a distraction until we get Devonshire safely away."

"Then who," Seth asked, "are they?" He pointed to a group of beasts coming through the hedge.

Priscilla turned to look. "Who goes there?" She called. One of the beasts looked up sharply. As they got closer it appeared to be a rat.

The rat tipped his hat, "We're gardeners. Pruning the hedges, you see. I, with the help of my gardening crew, are planning to make these hedges into fantastic pieces of art, representing beasts of the Imperium."

Seth stared at them. "It's past midnight!"

"Oh, we're very dedicated gardeners, sir. And it's always best to compose our works of leafy art while not under the scrutiny of beasts in the hustle and bustle of the day."

"One of them has a mop, Captain!"

"I see that Pip."

Seth glanced back at the sound of puzzlement in Priscilla's voice. She sniffed and rubbed at the scab on her nose.

"Are you going to kill them too, Captain?" asked Seth. "I only ask because I don't want to be in the way of spurting blood. I'd like to keep these clothes clean."

"Shut up."

For a moment both parties stood still and stared at each other then one of the 'gardeners' said. "You know captain, it might be wise to turn in for the night. The moonlights not as good as it used to be."

"Excellent idea. Good day… er… night to you sirs… miss." The figures hurried away.

Priscilla shoved Seth forward again. "Move!"

A moment later they were through the hedge and standing in the street. Llu let out a long whistle and a moment later, woodlanders appeared as if from nowhere and stood by them. Seth and Priscilla studiously ignored them.

"Right," said Seth. "What now?"

"Now," said Priscilla, "we go back to HQ. I deliver you to General Lock for debriefing and _I_ am going to have a warm bath and a proper meal and at least twelve hours of sleep. Do you have a problem with any of that?"

"Not at the moment, no," Seth replied.

"Good," said Priscilla, "I'd have to kill you otherwise. Buggerall."

"What?"

"I dropped my grasshoppers back there."

Seth winced. "Can we forget the insects and just get back?" He asked. "It's cold out here."

"Lovely idea," Pip remarked. "Have to get Seth back to his dear, sweet mummy."

"Pip?" Seth said.

"Yes."

"You know that privy duty that Steep assigned me to delegate under my new authority?"

"No sorry, don't know a thing about it."

"Too bad," Seth growled, "'cause you just got picked for first shift."


	28. Single and Single

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 27. Single and Single **

_by Sal  
_

The rat gritted her teeth. She'd done her best to keep pace with the other beasts but had still found herself panting alongside Soriss. At least next to _him_ she didn't have to worry about looking as if she waddled when she walked. Sal offered the monitor a brief smile.

Even though Soriss had a bit more swing in his tail since his promotion, Sal noticed he was shivering even more after they'd left to head to the Ruston mansion. After a few minutes of mental debate, the rat pulled the patchwork muffler from around her neck and tossed it to the astonished lizard.

"'Ere," Sal said, "ya look like ya need it more'n me."

The lizard gaped for a few seconds until his tongue automatically returned to his mouth to warm itself.

"Thanksss, Misss –"

"'S nothin'," Sal said quickly, "jes' somethin' I made t' pass th' time an' keep from freezin' my tail off at work…"

"Thanksss," Soriss said again. He slouched, glanced ahead at Wazzock, and straightened, then leaned towards her. "I'm not normally thisss nervousss. It'sss thisss leadersship thing...beetlesss. It'sss worsse than when I had to ssweep up sscrapsss jusst to pay for classsesss."

"Ya swept at th' school?" Sal asked, her eyes lighting with interest. The lizard nodded.

"That's grand! I liked that job m'self; I got t' jabber with th' students an' even taste some bits." Sal smiled and licked her chops at the memory.

"Oh yesss!" Soriss turned on her, his delighted eyes the only visible part of his face as he wrapped the muffler around his muzzle. "Did we ever crosss pathsss? I believe I would have remembered you."

"Might 'ave. There were only a couple o' lizards. One o' 'em was a fright, though. 'E'd order me around, make me clean th' stoves a dozen times until my paws were wrinkled an' sore." The rat paused and sized up Soriss out of the corner of her eye. "Come t' think o' it, 'e looked a lot like ya, but thinner...."

Soriss sucked in his gut and looked down at himself. "More like thisss?"

Sal turned and looked the lizard in the face. Her whiskers stiffened.

"Actually, 'e looked _jes'_ like ya do."

The monitor's head shrank impossibly into his neck, and he gingerly retrieved the muffler, handing it to the rat with his eyes lowered.

"Tch, there now! No need t' do that, keep it! It was a long time ago, any'ow," Sal said, her grudge erased by the forlorn face of the monitor.

Even as he wrapped the muffler back around his neck, the look of dejection still on the lizard's face prompted Sal to suddenly step closer. With only the slightest hesitation, she gave him a hug, letting go quickly when she felt him freeze beneath her arms.

Soriss's throat bobbed, and his eyes bulged as if he were choking on something. After a few seconds of labored breathing, he managed to whisper, "I'm s-s-ssorry...about...th-that."

"Let's jes' forget it now," Sal said. "We've got t' look after other things now..."

The rat lapsed back into silence. One of the crewbeasts up ahead had belched; the afterscent of Odde Tinge wafted over, causing Sal to grimace. It was so incredibly unfair that she'd had to flee with the Stormchaser crewbeasts just when she'd located the beast she mentally classed as her rival.

"An' I didn't even 'ave a chance t' ask 'er about Pylaris! It 'ad to be 'er, she was waitin' like th' note said an' she stunk t' 'Gates."

In fairness, it was only natural that the weasel would reek of cinders and seawater. The whiff of sewage was harder to explain. But Sal was not in a mood to be fair.

"She an' 'er fancy parfoom. What did 'e see in 'er, any'ow? She 'ad scabs all over 'er blinkin' nose!"

The rat glanced fondly at tbe hastily-snatched bucket bouncing along on her arm.

"Well, at least th' Captain did 'er one on th' noggin. Now th' both o' us 'ave a 'eadache. Serves th' minx right, it does!"

The Captain.

Sal's whiskers twitched as she eyed the rather scruffy-looking rat leading the way, her mop still in his paw. He was so purposeful, though, that even when she didn't have a clue what he was talking about she felt that she'd still follow him anywhere. Maybe he wasn't so scruffy after all.

As the band of beasts neared the marketplace, Wazzock suddenly stopped and held the mop to his eye as if it were a telescope he was sighting at the moon.

"This is rather an excellent mop, Miss Sal. Straight as a whistle, and with perfect balance. It must be the pride of its maker, some master craftsbeast whose talents are sadly unsung."

Wazzock twirled the cleaning instrument expertly about his wrist several times before stopping the rotation with his other paw. With a bow, he offered the mop back to Sal.

"I must return it now with my thanks. Wouldn't be seemly to take such a fine specimen of the tools of her trade from a wandering maid now, would it?"

Sal wriggled her nose in embarrassment.

"Thankye, sir. Erk!" The plump rat hastily retreated back into the mob of crewbeasts, avoiding Soriss and inadvertently bumping into a bespectacled rat on her way.

"Mar'kan's pants, I'm sorry, sir!" Sal squeaked as she saw what could only be described as a look of pain spread across the rather attractive-looking bosun's face. It didn't help that he recoiled from her touch as if she'd burned him.

Sal's ears burned as she did her best to hide behind the other crewbeasts, and she silently cursed her girth and clumsiness. It was no wonder she had gotten to her age without finding a mate, not when she was tongue-tied and galumphed into every eligible malebeast she encountered.

It was a welcome distraction from her self-induced misery when the Stormchasers arrived at Zann's Backyard. Their proximity to the Ruston mansion sent a shiver down Sal's spine. The rat hoped that Flo had managed to escape Bully Harbour before hostilities had broken out in earnest. She dreaded visiting the place where Pylaris had died, but she had to see if there was something she could do.

The only sign that something was amiss was the hole conveniently cut into the hedge that delineated the mansion's grounds. The Stormchasers huddled together, their progress impeded by the narrow opening. Passing through required some delicate maneuvering on Sal's part, but once she entered the yard she inhaled again deeply and brushed the twigs from her coat.

"Why've we all stopped?" she wondered, but a half-second later she understood: a party of armed beasts was approaching, dimly silhouetted in the light from the house. Sal did her best to look as if she belonged there, but the mop on her shoulder belied Wazzock's words about gardening.

Despite the mop, the leader of the other crew seemed inclined to accept the explanation for reasons of her own. The two groups moved past each other, faces all but invisible in the dead of the night. Their path now clear, Sal followed the Stormchasers into the mansion.

The scene inside was one of carnage. Beasts in various uniforms lay dead or dying in the entryway, and in the hallway a figure seemed plastered to the wall. On closer inspection, it was the lady of the house, her hook-paw stuck clean through the wood paneling. She was not in good temper.

"What does it take to find competent help these days?" Gloria threw an exasperated glance at the Stormchaser crew, roughly clothed in ill-fitting garments of Southern green peeking out from under their cloaks. "Ye couldn't even stop a gaggle of _woodlanders_ from breaking in and escaping with my prisoner!"

"Ya couldn't _keep_ 'im from th' woodlanders," Sal muttered just under her breath. A small part of her was very much enjoying seeing the female stoat fruitlessly struggling to free her hook from the clutches of her abode.

"Perhaps if you undid yourself from your hook you would have more success, Rusty. Better angle of leverage, less weight keeping it in the wall."

From the look on Gloria's face, Wazzock's suggestion was taken about as well as a dose of comfrey. With gritted teeth the Captain of the Guard raised her sword and hacked into the priceless paneling. A few more blows and the panel gave way. The stoat snorted as she ran a claw along the curve of her newly-freed hook.

"Lot of good the crew of the 'fastest' ship in the fleet does. Must be talking about how fast the barnacles encrust yer brains."

Sal could stand no more. Summoning up gumption she didn't know she had, the plump rat hoisted her mop and charged at the smug stoat, a daft idea of braining the murderess foremost in her thoughts. Her advance was easily parried by the Captain of the Guard and Sal went tottering into the wall.

"Wazzock, kindly restrain yer _help_ or I'll be doing it for ye in a permanent way."

A couple of Stormchasers sidled over to stand in front of Sal, the combination of their bulky frames and paws on weapon-handles effectively blocking her path to Gloria.

"Why should we listen t' 'er, any'ow? Ya killed yer own son!" Sal spat the words out between gasps, fighting the sobs that were threatening to spill out.

Gloria's glare was of such potency that Sal felt her eyes watering in self-defense.

"Ye've a fine ear for the gossip, eh? Hmph! Dirty guttersnipes should keep their worthless opinions t'themselves." The stoat's tone was barely insulting, as if the subject didn't interest her enough to bother. It was more than Sal could bear.

"Yer 'eartless, 'eartless!" she sobbed. The portly rat dropped her mop and bucket and fled, pushing through the rapidly thinning crowd of beasts that stood between her and the exit.

Out in the cold air of the evening, Sal let the tears flow at least. Weak… she was so weak! If she'd just been stronger, maybe she could have done something more to help Pylaris. Now she couldn't even revenge his death! The rat knew she was no match for Gloria –she was fat, slow, and knew nothing about fighting.

But there were other forms of warfare.

"'S the only thing I was good at, 'sides scrubbin' floors," Sal thought as she wiped her nose on her sleeve, trying to stop the hiccoughing that so often followed a good hard cry. "May'ap I can arrange t' 'ave 'ER do th' job—"

"Are you all right, miss? You must not let Miss Gloria get to you. She's a right fierce lass, full of salt and vinegar. But, in her younger days, I remember fondly when Miss Gloria and I played under the slats of the Slups. I believe I still have the scars. Still, I saw you leave upset, and believed it was my duty to see if you need assistance. You've been a grand help so far, and I'd hate for the last I'd see of you to be with tears on your whiskers."

Sal was sure her cheeks were burning as much as her eyes were, but all she could do was hiccough as Wazzock continued.

"Plus, I believe it gives the opportunity for Mister Soriss to be in charge for a few ticks. He's a bit green about the gills and he needs a bit of a nudge into the turmoil. And turmoil's name is Miss Gloria. Or, Captain Rusty, actually."

"I've got t' go, Captain. I 'ave t' meet with somebeast who can 'elp me." The rat maid's voice was barely audible.

"There be some dangerous waters with the war on, miss. I can't in good conscience just let you wander the streets with no protection!"

"I'll be fine. I... I 'ave something that'll tide me through." She paused, then smiled shyly. "Thankye again, Captain."

"Miss, there is no way between here and Hellgates that I'm going to allow you to go by yourself. You are upset, tired, and I believe the Imperium owes you a debt. I am willing to pay that debt by accompanying you where ever you may be headed. Within reason, of course," Wazzock said, striking the ground with the end of the mop for emphasis.

"Oh, by the by, you left your tools inside. Thought you might want them."

"Now I 'ave all I need," Sal said as she took back her mop and bucket. "An' yer needed inside, Captain. Fates preserve ya!" With a barely audible sigh, Sal turned away and walked briskly down the hill. She was heading into Occupied territory.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Halt! 'Oo goes there?" The sentry's challenge was accompanied by the rattle of a spear-butt on cobblestones.

"I'm jes' a charbeast lookin' for work," Sal replied, holding up her mop and bucket as she advanced slowly into the sentry's field of view.

"We don't need no moppin'," the surly-looking weasel said as he lowered his weapon to the level of Sal's apron. "An' we don't need no blinkin' Imperium spies."

"That's good, 'cuz I'm a spy for th' Empire," Sal said drily. "I need t' speak with th' General at once. I 'ave information from 'is agent 'ere, a stoat named Pylaris Ruston."

"I don't know no –" the weasel began, but was cut short by a new voice.

"That'll do, Private Muckclaw," a spectacled rat said as he approached the sentry from behind. "Let the maid through. You, Lieutenant! Escort her to General Lock at the mortuary, if you please."

As the beast indicated stepped from behind to take charge of her, Sal almost squeaked in surprise. She restrained the impulse just in time and let herself be escorted past the sentry without incident.

"Good show, miss. You're a spy for the Imperium. Why didn't you tell me as much?" Wazzock whispered in Sal's ear as he took her by the arm and strolled along, the whole while avidly observing the situation behind enemy lines. Sal didn't even attempt to answer. There was either too much to be said, or nothing at all. Instead, she concentrated on trying not to hyperventilate.

"Lovely evening, isn't it? Although it's closer to a very early morning now."

_ "'E's-'oldin'-my-arm-oh-Fates-my-'eart's-goin'-t'-stop."_ Aloud, Sal replied, "Erk!" and nodded vigorously.

"Don't know that word, miss. Though I seem to hear beasts say it a lot around me. Must be an exclamation of excitement," Wazzock responded cheerily as he waved at a wildcat wearing a wig. "That chap looks like a barrister. I hope he's not planning to seek indemnities from the resistance; he'd find they were a bit hard to serve notice to at the moment."

The excitement of the past day was starting to take its toll on Sal. Despite her familiarity with long, arduous nights of work she still felt her eyelids longing to claim a few hours of rest before the sun rose from its position just below the horizon. She was glad of Wazzock's presence, if only for the simple reason that he seemed to know precisely how to get to the funeral home that served as the temporary headquarters of the Southern Army.

A brief inquiry for "General Lock" from the aide standing in the foyer and the two rats were pointed towards sitting parlor discreetly tucked to the side of a room barred by imposing doors.

"The General will see you shortly," the adjutant said dismissively, looking down his nose at the charbeast and the scruffy-looking soldier.

Sal quickly shrugged her arm free of Wazzock's grip, and just in time: the doors opened as they approached, disclosing a familiar figure exiting the office. As the scab-nosed weasel passed them wearily, she didn't even glance twice at the odd-looking pair of beasts who had caused her such grief earlier that day. She might not even have glanced once. Sal bit her tongue to resist the urge to smack Steep over the head (again) with her bucket. But now was not the time.

The parlor was done in a soothing shade of lavender with two large, plush sofas flanking a portrait of what Sal assumed to be the owner of the business. Seeing nothing else to do, Sal took a seat.

"Fates! 'S so soft…" the rat thought, closing her eyes to enjoy the sensation. Before she could blink she was asleep.

"The General will see you now."

Sal rubbed her eyes with a paw. She had not meant to drift off, but she was tired in every fiber of her being. There was still much work to do, though. With a groan, Sal stood up and followed the aide to the ornate doors, Wazzock stepping jauntily at her side as if he could go for days on forty winks.

The aide opened the door, and Sal came to a halt in front of a desk behind which sat the emaciated frame of General Lock. His piercing eyes bored into her as he spoke.

"I'm told you have some information for me from a mutual friend?"


	29. Wretched, Meritorious B

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 28. Wretched, Meritorious B  
**

_by Kriley  
_

To say Gloria seemed to be in a bad mood as Wazzock left the room was akin to saying that being stabbed in the stomach was just a wee bit uncomfortable.

Normally, Kriley would have wanted nothing to do with the hook-pawed stoat, including, but not limited to, standing in the same room as her. But this time, an odd sense of calm filled him, even as the Stoatorian Guard captain paced about in the highest of bad humors, fixing them all with a glare that could have unseated an adder.

"Well, then," she snarled, slashing the air as she went. "Which of ye slack-jawed, brine-encrusted thick-heads is the one in charge?"

Kriley quite graciously pointed to Soriss. "That would be him, Miss Ruston."

The monitor would have likely sent him a truly rotten look, had he not been faced by Gloria. The stoat seemed unimpressed, her glance having wandered just past jaundiced and then tumbled into a river of acid.

"Hmph!" She snorted. "A giant lump of a lizard. Is that the best yer lot can come up with? Not that I'm surprised, seeing as yer captain is a right addlepated toad who'd go hopping off after a butterfly." She jabbed at Soriss' chest with her hook. "What's yer name, my dear?"

The monitor gulped and spluttered something that could have had an "S" in there somewhere.

"What's the matter, can't understand Vulpinsulan?" Gloria grit. "I asked yer name, and if ye'd like t'remain one first mate instead of several, then ye'll answer me."

"Sssoriss."

"Soriss _what_, sir?" she demanded.

"S-Ssoriss, Ma'am."

"Better," Gloria said with a twitch of the whiskers. "So, now that we've got that out of the way, time t'prove yer worth." She snorted and rolled her eyes. "As much as _that_ is. We've already lost the chance t'snuff out captain in the Southern Army. So then, what's yer plan on keeping the rest of the foreign fops at bay, eh?"

Soriss blinked. And then blinked some more. Monitors, Kriley noticed, weren't quite as good as showing pain or fear like furred beast were, and yet the blankness of his expression seemed an entire book on the subject of helpless bewilderment. A book that the rat vaguely looked forward to witness having its pages ripped out and its spine broken.  
At length, he opened his mouth. "Y-you ssee, I, um... perhapsss it'ss besst if we..."

Gloria sneered, whirling away from Soriss. "Hmph! I knew I shouldn't have actually expected any _real_ help. But at least ye could give me more than slack-jawed staring an' blubberin'!"

Kriley cleared his throat before he could stop himself. "Pardon me, Miss Ruston, but I believe the best course of action would be to set up traps for the invaders."

"Is that right." Gloria sniffed. "And who are you, m'four-eyed ratty?"

The rat resisted the urge to adjust his glasses, rooted to the spot as the stoat prowled toward him. "Kriley Clover, Miss." Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to keep the squeak from his voice.

"Oh? I knew a Kriley Clover once," Gloria said. "Or maybe he was a Carl. Anyway, runty little rat a bit like you. Can't stand those Clovers," she went on, expression dark. "Think they're posh, but ye've got t'be mad t'want anything t'do with the _Navy_."

"Actually," Kriley said, stepping back just a smidge, "that _was_ me." He winced at the memories of formal dinners and getting his fur ruffled one too many…

Gloria curled her lip. "Ye expect me t'believe that tripe? The son of Lord Clover serving under a witless lizard who can't speak more than one word and an even more witless rat who thinks that running after idiot maids with a mop is more important than protecting our Imperium, as a mere…" She paused.

"Bosun."

"As a mere bosun?"

Kriley merely gave the smallest of nods, and Gloria scowled. "Right, then. What are the colors of House Clover?"

"Purple and crimson."

Gloria's glower deepened. "When is the yearly Discussions of Hurting Thinges on Land and Sea?"

"Dismember the Eighth."

"Expect ye'd know the Marquis' favorite dessert, then?"

"Cuttlefish and rhubarb pie."

"Aye." Gloria rubbed the hook against her chin, eyewhiskers furrowed. "I always said he awful taste."

A curious look crossed the stoat's face. Striding over, she ruffled the rat's head-fur and nodded grudgingly as he twitched away. "Well, I s'pose it's ye under there after all, M'lord." As Kriley smoothed his fur back in place and tried to still his trembling tail, he noticed that Gloria didn't seem the least pleased at their reunion. He allowed the very faintest of grins to cross his face.

"Well, then," Gloria went on. "It would seem that _Lord_ Clover brought up a good point. Traps." She scanned the _Stormchaser_ crew with the penetrating glare of a bird of prey. "You there!"

The weasel she'd pointed to looked as if he'd swallowed a watermelon. "Y-yes, marm?"

"Come here."

He jogged over, and was given a boxed ear for his troubles. "Grk!"

Gloria sniffed. "Better. Now." She paced. "Any of ye know the slightest thing about setting up traps?"

Crewbeasts glanced toward one another, none particularly eager to be on the receiving end of Gloria's anger. Soriss raised a hesitant claw. "Ma'am, if I could venture a ssugesstion..."

Gloria arched an eyewhisker. "Oh? The esteemed first mate of the _Stormchaser_ knows how t'do something other than attract flies? Well then, tell me what ye've in mind."

Kriley narrowed his eyes. _This should be quite interesting._

Soriss's gaze hardened, and he straightened. "Catching fliesss isss my specialty, ma'am. We sshould treat them like inssectsss. Lure them in, give them reasson to charge - perhapsss a ssort of _weaknesss_. Only not," he quickly finished, quailing a little under her darkening glare. "Feign a broken wall or misssing troopsss. Ssweet honey will attract the inssectsss. And then..." He slapped the tip of his tail against the ground with a startling severity and a glimmer in his eye.

_Hmph. Lucky that trapping insects is something you know._ Kriley thought, crossing his arms.

Gloria nodded, but she wasn't fully satisfied until she had given the unfortunate weasel from earlier a kick to the shins.

"Fair enough. We need the mansion grounds and the surrounding houses booby-trapped as soon as possible. We'll have those Southies on their tails before they know it… Or else." This was punctuated by a grunt as she bopped the weasel on the head. "Now get going, the lot of ye. Oh, except for you, Lord Clover. I'd have a word with ye, if ye please."

Kriley stopped mid-step, and turned around. "Of course, Miss Ruston," he said, nodding courteously.

Gloria led Kriley down a lushly carpeted hall of portraits and shadows. The rat felt a chill ruffle his fur; it was all much like his own mansion, really.

"I must ask, M'Lord," Gloria said, eyes narrowed to slits, "why _are_ ye a part of this ragtag crew? It's not fitting for a beastie yer station t'be anything under the rank of first mate. They've dandies like Jaufrisard as _captain_, for Fates' sake."

_Don't remind me._ Kriley's expression darkened, but in a moment it was gone and he shrugged. "Never wanted to go to sea in the first place, to be quite honest. But needed the experience." _At least that's what they told me…_

He could hear his father's voice booming in the recesses of his mind.

_Kriley, m'boy! Can't have a proper son of mine cooped up in his chambers with ink on his paws while there's a world to be explorin'_

But there was something else. There always had been. Flittering behind the innocent words like a ghost in the walls. Like they needed him to escape. But why? He had a vague notion, a remembrance of sounds, musical perhaps, and certain colours, but blurred like in a dream, or when he just woke up in the morning before he'd put on his glasses.

Had it just been a dream?

Feeling a sudden fright cling to his heart like ice off the mast, he spoke up. "Miss Ruston, have I always been… like this?"

The urgency trailed off, mist-like, when he realized just how ridiculous a question it was. And if he hadn't realized it himself, Gloria's expression was kind enough to remind him of it twice.

"Are ye daft? Been like what? Ye mean…" And here Kriley knew he'd made a mistake as a crooked smile wended its way across Gloria's face. "… like this?" She finished, holding on to Kriley's arm quite tenderly.

The rat froze. "_Yes. Nowpleaseletgo._"

"Ever since I knew ye." Gloria snickered. "Sorry, _M'lord_, but ye did ask."

Kriley took a moment to gather himself, and then nodded. _Mustn't get worried over nothing_. "Very well, then. And, between you and me, Milady, bosun-ship isn't quite as bad as it would seem." _Only mostly as bad._

"I see." Gloria's narrowed gaze made it clear that she didn't. "Well, ye'd better go make sure the bloody fools ye kindly call a "crew" haven't killed themselves yet. If ye need anything, let me know."

Not able to resist, Gloria leaned over and gave Kriley a hefty slap on the back. It took him several minutes to regain control of his limbs.

--

Kriley gazed over the assembled beasts in front of the Ruston Manse, tail swishing against the frosted earth.

The sun in all it's early morning pinks and oranges had just peeked up over the horizon. Trip wires were being arranged. Crossbows positioned. Chamberpots retrieved. Oil warmed up. And only two beasts had injured themselves. Despite the fact that Wazzock and Sal were still missing, things were going unusually swimmingly.

He was about to check up on Sunyl and the other beasts around Zann's Backyard when he heard somebeast from behind.

"So, Lord Clover, is it? Who'd have known? Bad luck about th'whole first mate thing."

Kriley's left ear twitched, but he did not turn his head. "Hullo, Jibfang. If you've got time to chat with me, you've got time to work."

"Stow it, mate," the second mate continued, his voice silky-soft. "We both know you've got to be sore about it, and we both know you'd be a better first mate than that sorry scalebag."

The bosun acted as if he hadn't heard, and yet he sought out Soriss. _Ah, there he is_. The monitor was helping several other crewbeasts chip away at the frozen earth. He snorted.

"You know who you're talking to?" he asked, lips scarcely moving. "I'm not Flaxeye. The punishment for murder is severe, and I wouldn't want to have to subject a good beast like you to it." The rat was against killing. Even if he found the lizard an unlikely leader, he wouldn't want to see him dead. And he wanted blood on his paws just as much as he wanted it on Jibfang's.

"Who said anything about murder?" the weasel whispered. "With all these traps around, accidents are bound to happen. A broken leg, and even Cap'n will see that he ain't fit to lead. Lizard'll be back to cookin', and you'll be first mate. Savvy?"

Kriley frowned; it _did_ make sense. He doubted good will was the only thing on Jibfang's mind, but he was only doing what was in the crew's best interest.

"Right, then." Kriley said. "What have you got in mind?"


	30. Everything to be Prepared

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 29. Everything to be Prepared  
**

_by Gloria Ruston  
_

"Zo, it really waz Captain Pike and hiz crew that the Admiral zent," Kips remarked as he, Gloria, and two servants dug out the tiling in the kitchen and covered the resultant holes with rugs.

"Aye," the stoat replied, using her hook to pick away at the grouting. "Seems Jelliko's 'Gates bent on getting me back for the docks."

"Cap'n Wazzock don't seem s'bad, Mistress," one of the servants, a wildcat piped up. "He gave me a peppermint last time he was 'round for tea."

Gloria quirked an eyebrow, then threw a piece of tiling at the slopmaid. The cat yowled and clutched her side, tail fluffing up and ears falling back.

"I don't pay ye t'speak, Ms. Jessamine," the captain informed her. "Get back t'work or I'll toss ye in the privy t'set some really _fun_ traps, eh?"

"It begz the queztion, though," the lizard butted in, "why do you hate Captain Pike zo much? There are captainz juzt az ztrange, or worze."

"Navybeasts are all mad." She shrugged. "He's just..."

_How do I phrase it without sounding just as daft as Wazzy-wock, the fishmonger's son?_

"He's a mook," she continued. "what more needs saying? And he's impossible." She shook her head, stabbing the grouting. "Ye know I spent _hours_ torturing that moron in m'younger days. Not once did he cry, or beg, or ask for it t'stop. No, it was always: 'Well! That's a bit uncomfortable, Ms. Gloria. Are ye sure that's how yer s'posed t'hold a knife? Wouldn't it be better if I was upside-down? Is it long for tea, then?'" She wrenched the tile she had been working on from the floor and slammed it against the cabinet, turning her glare on the Fogey Commissioner.

"D'ye ken how frustrating that is?"

"...No." He blinked, flicked out his tongue, then returned to the tile.

_Mum was right,_ the stoat grumbled to herself, _never talk hot gossip with cold-blooded creatures._

--- --- ---

The sun had risen half an hour ago and Gloria had moved to a parlor off the main entrance hall. Kips, Jessamine and the other servant had moved to side rooms, as well. It was amazing to think that they had some 2,000 beasts at their disposal and still had trouble finding enough paws to booby-trap a mansion and the surrounding area. But, to be fair, Zann's Backyard was a large sector of the city... and a number of the 'loyal' citizenry she now employed were probably engaged in some petty looting while they worked. Well, more for Kips to sort out when the harbour returned to normal.

"Gloria." Regi loomed over her shoulder, giving her a start, as she tried to rig a column sporting a marble bust of the Minister of Commerce to collapse should any unwary soul wander by. "We need to talk."

"Busy, Regi," she mumbled around a mouthful of fishing wire. Tying knots had never been her forte with two paws – she didn't welcome an audience for the one-pawed encore.

However, despite her silently willing him away, the Blademaster took it upon himself to be a nuisance. When she did not stop working after three seconds, he snatched her left arm, spun her around, and yanked her forward. His mustache tickled at her nose and the grip he had on her forearm would have bruised a lizard's tough hide.

"A pox upon ye, Regi! That could've been my head!" Gloria snarled, spitting out the wire and jerking back. She didn't get as far away as she would have liked. "Can't it wait? General Lock's not like t'be sitting on tail now he's got both his puffed-up popinjays back."

"No. I'm tired of not talking about it," the stoat growled, keeping his hold tight, then relenting as he glanced up at Lord Brewtus' smirking bust. "And I'm tired, in general. But we can talk while we work. Let me do that, anyway. You're rubbish at this, you know."

"I forget how much a charmer ye can be," the lady scoffed, pulling free and reaching for the wire on the floor.

"About Pylaris-"

"Oh, here we go!" the captain huffed, retrieving the bundle and thrusting it into his chest. "I already said-"

"Shut up." Regi cut her off in return, rubbing his forehead where a permanent furrow had formed some three years ago. "Look, I understand it wasn't your fault entirely. But – 'Gates, Gloria!" He flung his arms up, the wire in his paws trailing along behind.

_Curse the nag, jerking about like a puppet,_ the lady stoat thought, a sneer poised on her whiskers. _Now, if I could catch hold of his strings..._

"Can't you even accept a _little_ responsibility?" the Blademaster continued. "Why do you think Pylaris turned on us in the first place?"

"Because he was stupid lad who let his privates cloud his better judgment." As she spoke, the captain hunched her shoulders defensively and moved toward a small staircase leading up to the servants' quarters. She pulled another ball of wire from her coat pocket. "Did ye know, I once caught him writing poetry t'whatever Southern hussy turned his head? _Poetry_, Regi! T'his 'Exotic Ale.'"

The stoat glanced over her shoulder in time to see her husband roll his eyes.

_What does he want? An apology?_ The sensation of many-legged creatures scurrying about beneath her skin made the fur on the back of her neck prickle and her stomach lurch. _I don't have anything t'feel guilty about,_ she reprimanded herself. _Nothing. I didn't do it. It's not my fault._

"It's not my fault!" Gloria reiterated aloud, hating the keening whine that accompanied the words as her eyes and ears flicked down.

"Right," he replied, tone laced with enough venom to poison an adder. "Like Blithe and IceRain weren't your fault, either."

"I – ye –" Rage doused her shame in an instant. The stoat slammed her project down and strode up to her husband, baring her teeth. "First," she raised a single claw, "ye know Blithe deserved it. The only thing that bag of bones was good for was reaching the pots on the high shelves... and even then, ye had t'keep a weather eye on him. Second," another claw came up, "as I recall, yer the one who encouraged me t'do it after he ruined yer precious _exhibit_. Finally," she raised a third claw, "IceRain was an accident, but if she hadn't had the audacity t'backtalk me and then _lop off my paw_, she might not have lost her head! Ye can't do a thing like that t'yer mum and get away with just a slap on the wrist." She jabbed the male stoat in the chest. "IceRain needed to be taught a lesson about respect, and ye know it."

"A pity that lesson had the side effect of death," Regi retorted, shoving her paw away. "Bit permanent that one, I hear. But it comes with a lovely mahogany casket and flowers from the relatives. Really, I was quite impressed with the stain job Mr. Sowerberry managed. I'm sure the worms appreciate it, too. There's just no substitute for good taste in a coffin."

"Oh, go stick yer head in a barrel of Tinge, Regi." She turned away adding, "Yer my mate. Yer s'posed t'be on my side, not railing against every move I make."

He grabbed her again before she could make it a full step. "Gloria, let me explain something to you about marriage. The only reason creatures like you and I get married is to find a partner to produce heirs, to maintain our societal positions, and to aggregate our wealth. So far, you've killed three of our kits and encouraged the fourth to take a job that led to his death, the aristocracy has fled the city under threat of invasion, and the Banke where our money is stored is in the claws of the Southern Empire.

"I _am_ your mate, and I will fulfill every line of the contract we both signed twenty years ago, but do not mistake obligation or affection for subservience. I'm not your friend, I'm not your servant, and I'm not your underling. I'm your husband. And I'll bloody well 'rail' against you when you're acting the brazen moron. I know you, Gloria. I know that you feel just as wretched about-"

"Captain Russton?" The lizard, Soriss, poked his snout into the parlor and licked the air, yellow eyes accusing.

Regi released her immediately and they broke apart in practiced unison, falling into their respective roles as faction leaders.

"What is it, Mr. Soriss?" Gloria asked. "We're a bit busy."

"My apologiesss," he hissed, tilting his head slightly. Then, just loud enough to hear, "The growling and ssnarling wasss obviousss enough."

The lady stoat pursed her lips and strode toward him, stopping close enough to smell his unkempt scales.

_Ye'd think a Navybeast would have better hygiene,_ she sneered silently. _They're always surrounded by water._

"Mr. Soriss," the Captain of the Guard began, tone sweet as lemon juice mixed with wormwood, "unless yer touring the parlor with the local theatre troupe, ye can knock off the asides. Now, what is it ye want?"

He gulped and retreated a step. Gloria derived some satisfaction from a lumbering oaf twice her weight and a head taller cowering, but limited her mocking to a smirk.

"We have finished the work in Zann'sss Backyard asss you assked. Or...asss much asss we could manage," he amended. "Sssil Kasshiro, the cat, ssaid the enemy wasss headed toward usss. I thought you sshould know."

The stoat shot a fleeting look at her husband, and he nodded smartly before scurrying off to round up the creatures in the manse and begin directing them downstairs. "Very good, Mr. Soriss. Kindly fetch Lord Clover and meet me down in the basement. Mind the traps, though. It'd be _such_ a pity for any accidents t'befall a creature such as yerself." She saw his mouth twitch downward for a moment, then it returned to careful neutrality.

"Yess, Captain," he agreed before lumbering away.

_Oh, he'll be fun t'break proper._

--- --- ---

The majority of the Vulpinsulan forces had assembled in the Unsmudgable tunnels and Gloria stood with Kriley in the Ruston basement, facing the ten staff that had survived Steep's slaughter. Saving Lord Devonshire had certainly proved them a merciless bunch of invaders. Though... curiously biased. The stoat thought back to her encounter with Priscilla and found herself confused.

The Captain of the Guard had swung her hook and managed to bury it in the wall, and instead of taking advantage of the situation, Prissy the Princess had pulled a face and run away with what Gloria could have sworn was a curse and a muttered: "You owe me big time for this, Pylly!"

Never mind that at the moment, though. "My dear help," the lady stoat began, "ye've all served me and my family loyally throughout yer stays in the manor, some of ye for decades. Now, we need a beastie t'remain behind in this room and act the honey for those Southern flies. All ye'll need t'do is yell. I've set up some matches so they'll strike just as the door at the top of the stairs opens, and once we throw the flour up in here, ye'll be all set for a good roast. So, that being said, I thought it only fair that ye draw lots on which of ye will be dying bravely and selflessly for the Imperium."

"Er... what?" Kriley asked.

"Ye can't expect me t'choose, can ye, Lord Clover?" Gloria offered an incredulous snort as she drew one long and nine short pieces of string from her pocket and arranged them in her paw. "They're all useful... after a fashion. So, unless one of them plans on volunteering, it-"

"This is ridiculous!" the wildcat, Jessamine, protested. "You can't make us do this, you psychotic - _Argh_!"

The slopmaid fell, blood oozing from the new smile splitting across her belly. "Why thank ye for volunteering, Ms. Jessamine!" Gloria hollered above the cat's shrieking. "Yer dedication t'yer country is truly admirable. We should all take a moment t'appreciate this noble sacrifice in the name of Emperor Fontesque Eckhart Voss I." She placed a paw over her heart momentarily, then turned to the rest of the room.

"You lot!" She motioned to the remaining servants. "Get that flour in the air, then into the tunnels with ye, 'less ye'd like t'keep Ms. Jessamine comp'ny."

Ten minutes later, the slopmaid's screams were locked behind the heavy iron frame of the door leading into the Unsmudgable's tunnels. The other servants were dusted in white, but otherwise could have been part of the scenery for all the life they showed.

"Regi," Gloria called to her husband, "ye'll have yer lads lead us to the Unsmudgable HQ? Nice, underground spot not like t'be found by General Lock s'quickly."

"Yes." He took the lead, starting the Vulpinsulan forces marching.

"Milady," Kriley murmured, falling into step beside her, though she noticed that he kept a full arm's length away, "what about Captain Wazzock? How will he find us if we're hiding in these tunnels? Shouldn't we try to-"

"How long have ye known Wazzy, M'lord? "

"Oh, well..." The bosun paused, scrunching up his brow in thought. "About five months now. Since his commission, I suppose. "

"I've known Wazzock Pike for over twenty years," she explained. "And there're two things I'm certain of: he's about two ticks and a tock short of an hour, and he's an uncanny ability t'find ye when ye don't want t'be found."

"Fair enough," the rat concurred. "But one other thing: was it really necessary what you did to that servant? I mean, there had to have been... What if...?" He trailed off and Gloria looked at him, smiling as she would at one of her kits after they had asked a very foolish question.

_He's a bit green, for a bosun, this one,_ she thought.

"Ah, Lord Clover, ye needn't worry. S'only a stomach wound. And not a terrible one at that. _I've_ had worse and managed for hours. She'll be caterwauling up t'the moment those Southies open the door." The stoat slapped him on the back for good measure, then worked her way forward.

_Yer move, General Lock._


	31. Tea and Sympathy

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 30. Tea and Sympathy  
**

_byWazzock_

_I can't wait to get back to Bully Harbor and have tea with Miss Gloria. She is a right charming stoat to chat with and last time I was ashore she was unavoidable busy and didn't have the time. Whenever we do get to chat, the moments are fleeting, for she's quite loyal to her job. I miss the days of our youth, when we traversed the underworld of the Slups, acting out all matters of dastardly deeds. I still have a few scars from those carefree times and remember how I got each one. Her odd sense of humor has only fermented in time. _

Standing there across from the most feared vulpine of the Southern forces, a sense of fear did not twitch through Wazzock's tail. Sure, there was a small sense of awe at seeing the usually faceless General Lock in the fur (he had less froth about his muzzle than in the rumors) but as for a fear that chilled from neck to tailtip: No. Wazzock just saw a fox, which, actually, was a notable event in its own right: with russet fur and notable tail brush, they were always a sight to behold. Though, as Wazzock looked at the fox general, he couldn't help but sense the general was rather worn about the edges, so that his features drooped a little. Not nearly the general that chewed on the hides of ferret kits that he'd heard of.

He smiled as he vaguely listened to Miss Sal tell her information to the general. "...an' then, sir, Mister Pylaris was murdered by 'is own mum, Gloria Ruston, an' she's..."

The rat miss kept glancing in his direction nervously, but Wazzock just nodded for her to continue with her string of details. Nervous, to be sure, though must have a thick hide to deal with this spying business. Playing the cards to make convincing words for one side while spying for the other. Very sly lass, and Wazzock had to commend her for it. Well, after this meeting was over, that is. He would also have to explain the actions of Miss Gloria properly. Sal seemed quite flustered about the stoat and it pained Wazzock to think that there were some dire misunderstanding between the two.

"And who is this, may I ask?"

"Er, 'e's my escort, um--"

"Captain Wazzock J. Pike, Captain of the _Stormchaser_, at your service."

The fox general stopped tapping his claws on the desk. Strange, Wazzock thought, how one couldn't properly notice something until its sudden absence. There was also the sudden squeak from Miss Sal, who dropped her bucket. Wazzock picked it up.

"Ah, sorry to startle you both. You see, that is actually an alias I am using at the moment. I am actually a Sergeant in the Southern Army. I was separated from my troops in the melee of battle and became lost in the maze of Bully Harbor. I came across a dying rat who spilled his story upon me, along with other unpleasant things as you can see from the stains on my uniform."

"And your name is..." Lock said, a digging hooked edge on the tone.

"I cannot impart that information at this time. You see, it appears that I have such a likeness of this captain when I put on the cap, which happens to be between my ears now, that this poor rat's crew found me and assumed I was their beloved captain. I dare not get out of character even by saying my own name to you, General Lock. Your ears are much grayer about the edges than I imagined."

"What?"

"Are there any orders you would like me follow?"

"Captain, we'd best be goin' now," Sal said, lightly tugging at Wazzock's sleeve.

"Miss Sal, you have had a long day. I believe some tea is required; there is nothing quite like tea to bring beasts together and calm the stormy seas of the mind. You don't by any chance have tea, do you, General Lock?"

"What is the meaning of this rubbish?" Lock muttered, "I have no idea who you are and I have half a mind to have your gizzard removed from your neck so you may see what it looks like when not in use. Understand?"

"I have always wondered what a gizzard looked like. Usually hear it in reference of birds. Perhaps we should ask one…"

"Enough, I…" Lock rose from his seat, then, seemingly hitting the precipice of some peak, the fire in his eyes faded, and he collapsed back in his seat, paws on his ears. The fox breathed deeply through his nose, making what Wazzock considered an intriguing whistling noise.

"Are you all right, General Lock?" Wazzock said, moving around the desk.

"Sir, we'd best go _now_!" Sal whispered urgently, her whiskers a-quiver.

"Miss Sal, we cannot leave the General in such a state. Please, see if anybeast is about to brew some tea. He is obviously not in good health and…" Wazzock's neck was grabbed by the vulpine's claws, and the rat was brought nose to nose with the wheezing general. Wazzock squeaked, struggled a moment, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe as much as he could through his constricted windpipe. When he opened them, Lock's eyes were there to meet them, the fire within brought back to a blaze.

"I am perfectly fine," Lock growled, "And don't you dare breathe a word otherwise, or breathing will no longer be any of your concern."

As you wish, General Lock," Wazzock squeaked, trying to work in a smile around the edges.  
"I must say your whiskers are looking quite perky today."

The fox released him. Wazzock brought his own paws to his neck, feeling the warm liquid seeping from the claw's punctures, his nose catching the metallic tinge in the air. With as much blood as he had encountered, he really couldn't believe his senses hadn't dulled to the smell. He edged back around the table, to where Sal still stood. "Now, let me see about getting a dash of tea."

"Captain, don'tcha think th' General should be left t' rest? We've done our part an'…" Her voice tapered off as Wazzock gave her a long look. Not quite cold or hot, just full of a meaning that pushed words to the side.

"I shall be right back."

Soon enough, Wazzock came back into the room with a still-steaming kettle and a tray of three cups procured through means unknown. He poured an emerald-colored liquid. "As I've been told, General Lock, this blend is made up of notable plants and flavorings of Bully Harbour, and though I risk sounding somewhat treasonous in admitting as such, it is possible the most delicate and bombastic brew in existence in the known world. I've also been told to never to ask what the tea actually contains."

The fox skeptically took the glass and Wazzock lapped a bit of his own to show its safety. It was strange really, to see someone who was his mortal enemy sit there slumped in his chair, completely at Wazzock's disposal. He supposed he should have actually poisoned the tea before giving it to the General. That would have ended everything right here. As the reports went, Lock's competence and ruthlessness were the sole driving force behind the Southern Army, and without him... Wazzock's tail twitched. No, that wasn't an option at this time.

"How is it, General Lock?"

The general grumbled something after his swig.

"And you, Sal?"

"'is fine."

"Allow the flavor to make everything to fade away and…" yelling turned Wazzock's right ear. "Pity there is war going on. Any chance that we, the Southern Army will just give up this fight and return home to our families?"

"When 'gates freeze over," Lock growled, staring into his half empty cup.

"Strange, I always assumed Hellgates was already frozen. What's what me dad said what would happen when I became a Captain in the Imperi… keep drinking your tea, sir, its still half full."

"This 'ere tea's odd, Captain," Sal said.

"Really? It's how I usually make tea in this situation."

"It don't taste like tea's s'posed t'."

"Well, it's well fermented, if that's what you mean."

"Could you pour a little more?" Lock said, and Wazzock obliged.

"What is this exactly?"

"You see, when tea leaves aren't available, I just used a heated blend. I just so happened to find a keg of it, completely untinged. Well, it is tinged. Actually. It's in the name."

"'S this Odd Tinge?!" Sal squeaked in surprise.

The fox coughed. "Is she saying this is alcohol?" He placed the cup down and once again rose to his footpaws. "I am not certain who you are, Captain Pike, or whatever your name may be. But if you are a sergeant, I dare not consider how a creature as yourself could have made it through one battle without being decapitated by your own troops, let alone survive being promoted."

"Just lucky, I guess." Wazzock tipped his hat.

Paws behind his back, General Lock began walking towards the rat, licking his chops in a dangerous way. "Lucky. You say. And yet you come in and serve me a vile substance to deteriorate my state of mind during this dire hour?"

"I couldn't have put it better myself. Your vocabulary is smashing, sir."

"Out."

"Are you certain you don't want more tea?"

"Out."

"I just-"

"Captain, we must go," Sal said, taking Wazzock by the arm of his Southern uniform and practically yanking him out the door of the funeral parlor into the night.

Sal had him sit at the side of the building, out of the way of soldiers bustling about, while she went to find bandages for his wounds. He told her he was completely ship shape (a nice spin of words, being a captain and all) but he decided he would let the miss fuss over him. It would help her deal with it better. Like Nemik, she seemed rather nervous around him. Well, not like Nemik, he corrected himself, this was a different sort of nervous that made his whiskers waggle from time to time as he caught some odd electricity in the air. Pity the tea hadn't lasted long enough, for Wazzock wanted to ask her about it.

She returned, with somewhat clean cloths, and placed one around his neck.

"I hope Soriss is doing all right," Wazzock said, as means of filling in her quiet work.

Sal bit her lip.

"Something on your mind, miss?"

"I…I…ya see…yer…why…" She stopped, then moved her gaze to the ground, "Why did ya make Soriss yer first mate? Wasn't 'e jus' 'appy as a cook?"

Strange. Wazzock could almost sense that wasn't the question that was initially intended, but he obliged. "You see, I thought that he'd have the swoop to get out of any fickle situation, Mister Soriss. To be honest, while watching him cook, I always got a twitch down my tail with the beauty of it. He has a cold-blooded sensibility when it comes to the foods he composes, why can't that cold-blooded sensibility carry over to beasts?"  
"Oh."

"Remind me to ask him if his tail is removable later, miss. I've heard that fact about lizards and always forget to ask him."

Behind them, within the funeral parlor, crashing sounds came.

"Wonder what's going on in there. Hope General Lock is alright." Before Sal could stop him, Wazzock got up and scampered back to the front of the building, sidling up to the porch just in time to see a weasel, no, wait, a marten (Wazzock could never ignore the fluffiness of that tail on a weasely body) stumble out of the building. He squinted after the figure, wondering what had happened within. Just as he was about to take it upon himself to look inside the building, Sal caught up.

"Captain, 's dangerous for ya t' be 'ere. Ya got t' get back t' yer crew before…"

"Please, call me Wazzock. Wazzy. Zock. Stuff like Captain Pike is unnecessary between friends, miss and…"

"You, Captain Pike, Sal." They both turned to see Lock just outside the door, his eyes aglow from the scattered lamp lights, "So, you chose to stay nearby. Dire mistake."


	32. Operation Ballroom Dance

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 31. Operation Ballroom Dance  
**

_by Lock_

_To General L._

Regarding Ballroom Dance. Existence of Dance Partner confirmed, but she's playing hard to get. Suspect one of Party Hosts know how to win her over.

_To General L._

Found weak spot of Dance Partner. Found highly detailed love letter INN Party Host's drawer. Will try and deliver to you.

~

The fighting having died down and troublemakers rounded up, the biggest concern of the Southern Army members was whose regiment got to bunk in which building. Captain Helmsly insisted that the 3rd Sniper Unit vacate the Breadenbutter Inn, as there were only fifteen of them and couldn't possibly need an entire Inn to themselves. Captain Klist's regiment had discovered a bedding and mattress shop, and had declared the soft cushions contrabands of war, much to the shop owner's dismay. A few of the Engineers, eager to lay claim to the winery, were so despondent at finding the various wines poisoned that they had taken to digging out the foundations of the building, hoping to collapse it in its own misery.

As for General Lock, the fox usually didn't care about architecture, but the place he had chosen was definitely pleasant to the eye. Fresh flowers in tall vases contrasted the black and white motif of the walls and floors, with the odd red carpet down a few of the halls. The patio, flanked by a shrubbery, seemed to deny entry to any dust or refuse from the rest of the Market; the great wooden doors would not be tarnished by filth. The single floor and lack of stairs was merely the icing on Lock's cake.

He simply ignored the irony that the HQ of the Southern Army used to be called _Gravedigger's Funeral Home_.

It was a temptation, however, that Pleasantrie could not resist. "It seems fitting," he commented, after he and Steep appeared inside his makeshift office, formerly the wake room. "The owner must appreciate the business you've provided him."

The fox decided to not get up from his chair and kick the plover. "That's quite droll, Mr. Pleasantrie," he sniffed. "I was unaware that _Cabin Birds_ were capable of such wit."

His feathers both figuratively and literally ruffled, Pip went silent.

"General Lock, may I?" interrupted Steep, clamping her paw down atop the plover's beak. "I'm tired, hungry, and ridiculously sober. Can I just give you my report and proceed to luggage off?"

Lock opted against commenting on the dirt marks and grass stains on Steep's uniform. At the very least, it indicated she had been actually doing something constructive. "You may."

"Midway to the Ruston Manse where then-Private Devonshire was, per Lieutenant Llu's report, being held, I apprehended Wotfer Mercenary Captain Wright. He had one broken arm and was carrying a shovel, and was no match. However, I thought it best I try to use his mercenary loyalties and our hold on the bank as incentive for him to help me on my mission, and he readily agreed. I sent him ahead to have him simplify Ruston's defences for the-- the rest of the regiment. In retrospect, this was probably the mission's only true mistake, because there were guards at the ready for us in Ruston's garden. We prevailed with minimal casualties - although I got a scar," she added, beginning to lift her jacket to show off her abdomen. "Wanna see it?"

"No. Now carry on."

"We managed to secure the immediate perimeter, and Pip was able to discern Devonshire's location by whizzing about like a-- sorry-- from the outside. Liuetenant Llu and the gra-- woodlanders then served as a distraction at the front door, whereupon I entered the mansion using a side-entrance and made my way to Devonshire's holding cell, felling four Stoatorian Guards in the process via decapitation. Just to be certain of their state of being, as is prudent. Devonshire put up slight resistance during the actual rescue. I fear he may be suffering from Redwall Syndrome. In a surprisingly short amount of time, may I add," she said, shooting the pine marten a glare.

"We lost three woodlanders. There was no further difficulties with the mission," she concluded.

Glaring at the red circle on the map indicating the Ruston Manor, General Lock started to sneer, but for some odd reason, felt more compelled to place his paws in his pockets. "Gloria Ruston." He tapped a claw idly on the table top, the monotonous sound steady and regulated. Lock had never put much faith in chivalry, and was loathe to even consider the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard a worthy adversary. Certainly not out loud, anyway.

But this knack of popping up exactly where Lock didn't want her was starting to become old. "Does she have the remaining Guard with her?"

Caught gazing longingly out the window at an overlarge loaf of bread that three ferrets were toting down the street, Steep nodded. "I don't think they're all _in_ the manor with her, but she's got a fair amount of beasts holed up inside. The rest are probably in other manors. We should outnumber her, though."

Lock wanted to attack. He wanted that smarmy hook-pawed hussy taken care of. He wanted her to go away and leave his plans alone. However... "If you had as much trouble in her garden as you say, it's safe to say Ms. Ruston has booby-trapped every street and every house by now. Attacking her in her own backyard would be unwise."

The weasel shrugged. "You could burn it down. That'd get her out."

Pleasentrie looked aghast at this suggestion. "General Lock, you can't set fire to half of a city! Think of the civilians!"

Scratching his chin, Lock considered this. "Yes, you're right. It's bad enough we have to fight an army, there's no need to have the entire populace angry with us as well. It would be very inconvenient."

"It would also be _wrong_," the plover insisted.

"It would be inconvenient," the fox repeated, rising from his chair. "Now then, I shall have a brief discussion with Private Devonshire, and then you may have him back."

Pip snapped to attention and saluted with a wing. "Yes, sir. You're welcome, sir. No praise needed, sir. Expect every mission to go so smoothly, sir. Not at all like those failures in the southern slups who've let the line collapse three times against the Fog Street beggars, sir. Or like the drunken savages under General Drua who sank their own ship at the docks. No, sir. Captain Steep and I need no thanks for our job well done."

"Good. I'm glad you've finally come to realize what I expect from you. Dismissed." The theatrics, in Lock's opinion, were completely unnecessary.

The outwards swinging door managed to whack Major Darcy on the nose as Steep and Pleasantrie exited. Rubbing his face gingerly, the rat shuffled over to Lock's desk. "Egscuze me, zir, bud dere are a pair of rats here dat wants to see you."

Lock raised an eyebrow at his secretary. "Major Darcy, why are you talking like that?"

"By dose just got hit by a door, zir."

"I see. I recommend ceasing doing that. And what do these two rats have to say that would be of interest to me?"

"One of dem zays she dows something about Mister Pylaris."

The fox looked from his map. That _was_ concerning. They hadn't received any word from their spy since the Southern Army landed on the island, and he still hadn't followed through with his promised delivery. "Very well. Tell them to come in.

Getting the taste of alcohol out of his mouth was tougher than Lock thought. Swishing the water in his mouth, the fox spat it into one of the vats in the crematorium. He had needed to take a walk after that delightful conversation. _The most daft rat I have ever met…_

Leaning against a coffin, Lock rubbed his chin in concern. Pylaris was dead. And of _course_ Gloria had killed him. She would probably do a back flip over his lines next and slay an entire regiment by batting her eyelashes. Well, the General would cook her goose yet.

More concerning was what Pylaris had failed to do before he died. Certainly, he had done a great deal already. He had inform Lock of the Imperial fleet at Magh, provided detailed maps, and had been instrumental in the development of the South's other plan.

But they still didn't know where _it_ was…

Digging out the last received letter from Pylaris out of his coat, Lock processed the code with accuracy. "INN Party Host," meant the Minister of Innovations knew something about the location of Dance Partner, and that Pylaris intended to learn further information and send it back to Lock. Whether or not he ever found anything on the subject was unknown, and Lock still had no idea where Dance Partner could be on this island.

It was grossly inconvenient.

Pocketing the memo, Lock limped back to his office. He still had one more interview to endure before he could finally get some sleep.

"Comfortable?" the General asked Seth, who was sitting in Lock's chair, had his boots up on Lock's desk, and was flipping through one of Lock's books.

The marten sniffed. "I'm a lieutenant now actually. Captain Steep promoted me. And really, as a General you should be able to afford a better chair. It seems like neglect to ones self otherwise and underlings should never..."

"That's why it is _my_ chair, _Private_, and why I'm the only one who sits in it."

"Why, the servants at my manor have comfier seats than…"

"Private Devonshire, get out of my chair!" Seth didn't seem to enjoy being yelled at, but he obediently removed his posh tail from Lock's chair, allowing the fox to limp over and, shaking slightly, plop himself down. _Cushions!_ Placing his paws atop his desk, Lock glared at Devonshire, who appeared to be eying one of the flower arrangements in the room. "Given that Cabin Bird Pleasantrie claims he was tortured during his incarceration, I'm surprised to find you looking practically dapper."

Seth laughed. "Why wouldn't I be looking dapper? No one cares if woodlanders are tortured, I have friends who practically do it for fun on a regular basis." He paused and smiled. "Besides, I rather think that Lady Ruston likes me." A sharp snapping noise brought his attention back to the fox. "What _are_ you doing?"

Tossing aside a newly broken piece of charcoal, Lock replied, "Never mind. You were saying?"

"Ahem, well, she's a remarkable lady. Has a charming house, exquisite cuisine as well. I must say, was it entirely necessary to drag me away so soon? I could have picked up valuable information."

"If it's any consolation, I wanted to forget you entirely and leave you there."

"You're too kind." Seth growled dryly. "Not only am I forced to be here against my will, but my superior officers take _such_ and interest in my well being."

"I don't." The marten appeared visibly downcast at this revelation. Lock really didn't care. "Any surprise I may harbor over your lax imprisonment is due to the fact that Gloria Ruston is a raving lunatic, and I cannot fathom why she would fail to poke you full of needles."

Seth smirked. "It's my good looks and charm. Somehow it never occurs to well bred females to lock their aristocratic acquaintances in a ship with bilge rats, much less shove them full of needles.

Lock leaned back in his chair. He personally couldn't stand Devonshire, so why would Gloria? She hadn't shown any restraint in handling Pleasantrie. But then (and it was here that a wave of understanding flooded through Lock's brain), it was clear that Devonshire didn't need torturing in order to provide the female stoat with everything she wanted. The fox scowled; what was _with_ every beast in this army and their hesitance to do their job? "What did you tell her?"

The abrupt change of conversation seemed to unsettle Seth. "I beg your pardon, I never mentioned telling her anything! I have _some_ affinity to my country after all. How dare you accuse me? My father will have _words_ with you!"

"Because you're a fop who would stab half of this army personally if you were promised clean sheets."

The marten's whiskers bristled. "I would not! Well some of them I would not. A couple of them.. Anyway I'd hire someone to do it for me. And I'd require more than clean sheets."

"Private Devonshire, stop dithering."

"I'm just setting the record straight… And it's Lieutenant, remember?"

"_Devonshire…_

Rolling his eyes, the marten gazed idly at his claws. "What! I didn't tell her anything of importance regarding the army! No numbers, or positions, or the state of your health. I'd sooner mention the Emperor's sixth toe to a foreigner."

Lock glared at Seth, who was so disinterested and passive that he doubted the marten was even considering lying. Curses, he hated admitting he was wrong. "It seems, Private, that you are not as incompetent as I…"

"I did happen to mention a trivial rumor that I overheard Father talk about once. Something about a weapon, but it's hardly important."

Outside the funeral parlor, a few vague arguments permeated the walls, creating the only noise within Lock's office. Devonshire continued to inspect his claws. Lock sat frozen in his chair, appearing for all intents and purposes to be in the final stages of rigomortis.

_Operation Ballroom Dance…_

He told them about it… he told _her_ about it…

How could he know... No one knew! They had spent months ensuring no one knew!

"What?"

"Hm?" Seth looked up from his nails, slightly taken aback when he saw Lock's usually emancipated features looking even more death-like. "Oh, it's nothing, really. My father was talking too loud, and I missed any real details. Besides, a weapon that can level an entire city seems far-fetched at the best of times."

Within the space of five seconds, Lock tried heavy breathing, counting to ten, and asking the Fates to preserve his patience, all without much luck. "You…" he finally rasped out, slowly rising from his chair. "You… you… you block headed, egotistical, waste of air! You addlebrained sack of worms! You complete and utter bucket of… do you have any idea what you could have done? What you already _have_ done?!"

"Calm down General, you'll kill yourself getting so excited. Besides, it's only a rumor. Everyone knows it isn't real."

Defying his crippled body, Lock dashed to the marten and seized him by the coat collar, shaking him. "Do you know how long we've spent precisely trying to avoid having this leak out? How much time I've spent? And you just blurt it out as an afterthought! Not even being tortured for it! You imbecile! You just wasted my time!" Pushing Devonshire with some force to the ground, Lock pointed accusingly. "You do not mention this ever again, do you understand me? You don't think it, you don't speak it. Not to Steep, not to your precious Ruston, not to anyone!"

Seth struggled free and stood, straightening his uniform. "All you had to do was _tell_ me." He muttered. "It's no use keeping military secrets if you don't _know_ their military secrets, is there?" He ducked out the door.

No sooner had Seth left than Major Darcy entered, closing the door behind him, looking concerned. "I could hear you shouting over in the lobby, sir. What seems to be the problem?"

Having worked himself into such a frenzy, Lock could only communicate via yelling. "The problem is that we have so many children running around in green uniforms that we have to watch our own Army closer than our enemies! That's what the problem is, Major!"

Darcy was less concerned with being yelled at than he was with the visibly shaking fox over exerting himself. "Sir, I think you ought to sit down..."

"He didn't even have the good sense to be tortured first! Just gives out secret plans in exchange for a wink and some cheap thrills! And his father! Talking about it in the open like that! I said not to involve civilians for just this reason!"

"Please, sir, you really ought..."

"And now _she_ knows! That hooked hussy tramp knows about it! As if getting in my way at every single turn wasn't nearly enough, now she has to learn about something _no one_ was supposed to learn about! And you can just bet that she'll have some perfectly clever remark to make about how General Lock failed to make the grade... I never fail! Everybody else fails! I..."

His frail body strained and overheated, it was no surprise that his sole leg gave out from under him. Luckily, Darcy had the wherewithal to push Lock's chair underneath the fox before he fell to the floor. Sighing, the rat poured a glass of water and handed it to the General. "I wish you'd start listening to me more often, sir. You can't be working yourself up like that, you'll do yourself a mischief every time. Now, what's happened?"

Taking a sip of his water, Lock felt his tense muscles melt as he collapsed deeper into his chair, anger and ire rapidly being replaced with depression. "It seems that Operation Ballroom Dance has been compromised. Private Devonshire confesses to having hinted of it during his incarceration."

Major Darcy bit his lip in concern. _He_ only knew of Ballroom Dance because he had to do Lock's paperwork, and it would have been hard to hide all the details from him anyway. And even then, the Southern Officials had made it very clear that if the rat said anything about it to anyone, he would have fifteen seconds to live. "But how would he know anything about it?"

"Apparently, his father, Lord William, was talking quite openly about it." Taking another sip of his water, Lock scowled. "We should have looked for funding from slightly inane sources. I said we should have just commandeered his money and not told him why." Why did Lord William have to know, anyway? It was so pointless. "Anyways, Devonshire claims to have given no real details, only that we're looking for..." The fox stopped, glancing at the walls and doors of his makeshift office. He was sick of beasts listening in on things they shouldn't be. "...Dance Partner," he ended, using the decided code name for the weapon.

"At least he didn't tell them anything else…"

"He told them too much already. The less they know, the safer the mission is." Lock sighed miserably. "Curse it all, why did he have to tell Ruston? Out of every soldier on this island, why her?"

"Do you think she'll be able to do anything about it, sir?"

"Captain Ruston, in the three days I have known her, has developed an incredible talent for doing exactly what I don't want her to do, and doing it with great ability. She burns my docks, she kills my spies, she learns about my plans…" Rubbing his aching forehead, Lock grimaced. "I need her out of this game. Tell Captain Helmsly to have his regiment move against the Ruston Manor in Zann's Backyard." It was a terrible military move. The flaws were numerous, and Lock knew it.

But he needed Gloria out of the game….

Major Darcy pushed his spectacles back up his nose. "Very good, sir. Will that be all?"

Clasping his paws together in front of his face, Lock tried to process the number of troubles that had been heaped on his plate. They still didn't know where Dance Partner was, and Pylaris was dead. It needed to be located, quickly, before the Imperials became too curious. "No. Find those two rats from earlier, Lightfoot and whatever the insane one was called. Bring them here." He needed a spy, and though they weren't his first choice, they were all he had.

"Oh, I think they're still on the patio, sir."

Lock growled in spite of his exhaustedness. "I told them to leave. Why doesn't any beast listen to me?" Groaning, he pushed himself out of his chair, and, finding himself steady, limped towards the door. "I shall fetch them myself."

"Oh, if you're still feeling unwell, sir, I could do that for you." Darcy shuffled slightly behind the fox, hoping to catch him in case he tipped over.

"You'll be far too busy finding Captain Helmsly, Major. And it's not as if the short walk will kill me." Opening the great oaken door leading outside, the fox was annoyed to find Sal and "The Captain" still on the patio. The fact that he had wanted to find them in the first place was totally irrelevant. "You, Captain Pike, Sal. So you chose to stay nearby. Dire mistake."

Wazzock shook his head. "It was no mistake, General. It was quite intentional. We made a conscious decision and effort to remain on this spot, as it is comfy. Nothing chancy, accidental, or mistaken about it."

Resisting the urge to have the rat killed, Lock beckoned with his claw. "Come inside, both of you. There's something I need to discuss."

The unorthodox trio limped, shuffled, and ambled back to the wake room, where upon Lock collapsed again into his chair. This was probably a mistake, he knew, but he had not time to do anything else. All he had was Sal's word that she was working alongside Pylaris, but it would have to do. The fox knew one way to ensure the female rat's loyalty. "Ms. Lightfoot, how much do you make as a char beast?"

Sal seemed surprised that she was not only not being yelled at, but that Lock sounded almost concerned about her welfare. "Oh! Um, well, s'pose it depends on 'ow much things need moppin', if you understand me. On a good week, I make 'bout twenty gilders, givertake."

Nodding, Lock placed his paws together in a business-like manner and stared Sal in the eye. "Ms. Lightfoot, I am prepared to bestow upon you one hundred gilders weekly if you are willing to accept the job I'm about to offer you."

Lock thought Sal's eyes might pop out of her head. Her mouth opened several times, but a lack of words came out. Wazzock took it upon himself to answer for her. "Quite generous, General, and very nice, given that mopping is not a great provider of monetary gain. Though you should give Ms. Sal the money in a sack, rather than have her carry all that in her pockets. It would get very heavy."

""ere, now," Sal finally managed to squeak. "Yer not pullin' my tail, are ya? That is, ya'd be payin' me that much? For real?"

Lock nodded, ignoring Wazzock. "For real. All I need you to do is take up the job that Mr. Pylaris was undertaking for me before he died."

The char beast shuffled her paws at the mention of Pylaris. "I don't rightly know what 'e was up to, Mr. Lock, sir. I jes' relayed letters and things. But I s'pose I'd be willin' t' try."

"And I too, sir Lock, shall endeavor to…"

The fox pointed sharply at Wazzock. "My deal to you is that I _won't_ have you killed if you assist Sal. Understand?"

"That seems like a fair deal, General Lock. Being killed would inhibit my other hobbies, and then I would have to tell the fellows that we can no longer partake in our badminton games, and they enjoy them so."

Not wanting to try and understand the mad rat, Lock signaled for the duo to come closer. "Now, what I am about to tell you is strictly confidential," he said in a low voice. "You are not to tell any beast, you are not to make any small talk of it, you are not to write anything down regarding it. Secrecy is of the utmost importance, which I cannot stress enough." A pair of concerned nods was enough for Lock to believe he was understood. "Pylaris was doing research for a secret project for the Southern Empire, codenamed Operation Ballroom Dance. We're trying to locate a special item within the Vulpinsula, codenamed Dance Partner. Pylaris died before he could tell us the location of Dance Partner, which is still a mystery."

"Now, what could this Dance Partner be, hm?" Wazzock asked with interest.

Even if Lock had any confidence in Wazzock's brain, he still wouldn't have told him. But he had not choice. "It's... a weapon. A special weapon."

Sal's ears perked up, and her widened eyes gave the impression of remembering something. Before she could comment, however, Wazzock interupted. "Ah. So shall we dig it up and bring it back?"

An aggravated sigh and heaving shoulder compelled Sal to lay a precautionary paw on her partner's arm. "You don't need to find it yourselves, not for what I have in mind. That last of Pylaris's letters made reference to the Minister of Innovations, insinuating he knows something. I need you to infiltrate either the Minister's own office, or find him personally, and find out if he knows anything regarding the location of Dance Partner. Once you find something, I want you to return to me, and I shall carry out the rest." The slightly overwhelmed look on Sal's face wasn't entirely reassuring. "Am I clear?"

Sal nodded slowly. "I guess so. Least, I get th' gist of it…"

Lock nodded. "Good. I expect good news. I suggest the two of you go get some rest before you undertake your mission. Dismissed." The rat's looked at one another briefly, then, with some head scratching, left the wake room.

The sun had started to rise, a few glimpses of light slipping into Lock's window. The General fell asleep in his chair.


	33. You Only Die Twice

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 32. You Only Die Twice  
**

_by Sal  
_

It was all Sal could do not to break into shivers before Lock walked away. The stress of the conversation with the General combined with two days of fatiguing events was too much, though, and the rat felt herself shaking from top to tail.

"I've got t' sleep," Sal said dazedly in reply to Wazzock's inquiring glance. "Can't think now."

Blinking back increasingly heavy waves of sleep, Sal somehow found herself walking into a building that was filled with servile-looking beasts in various stages of alertness. Rudimentary cots were tightly packed together, and Sal collapsed onto the nearest empty one. She was snoring in less than ten winks.

"Hey, you! Rat! That'z my cot, get out!"

The words were accompanied by a rough shake, and Sal flailed herself awake and upright. Rubbing at her aching eyes, the rat slowly comprehended that the irate-looking lizard in front of her had already laid claim to the sleeping space.

"I didn't mean nothin' by it," Sal protested between yawns, "jes' needed a place t' rest a bit 'fore work." The growl of her stomach was audible even to the other beast. The other female (it must have been female; the voice sounded like Soriss had suddenly grown long eyelashes and started doing pedicures) gave the plump rat a once-over, then seemed to come to a decision.

"Look here, I'll forget all about you zleeping in my zpace and even get you some food if you help me with my tazk," the monitor said. Sal perked up immediately at the mention of food.

"'Course I'll 'elp ya!" she said, before she remembered the events earlier that morning. "Er, it won't take long, will it?"

"No, juzt need to clean my officer'z quarterz and zerve her breakfazt. Zhe'z a mezzy one, but it'z a quick job for two beaztz."

"Right, then," Sal sighed in relief. Her stomach growled loudly again, and the rat swayed slightly. "Er, what's yer name?"

"Erk."

"'S okay, ya can tell me."

"My name iz Erk."

"Oh. Well, Miss Erk, d'ye think I could 'ave a bite t' eat before th' job? T' keep my strength up?"

The lizard considered the rat for a moment before grudgingly handed over the remains of what must have been her own breakfast: cold Non-Fish Fishsticks wrapped in the morning's Smelt. Sal hastily extricated one of the two remaining greasy, soggy sticks and shoved it into her mouth. The congealed food stuck in her craw when she recognized a word at random on the Smelt page. The rat swallowed painfully as she realized it was a story summarizing Pylaris's death. She stuck the greasy paper into her pocket and looked up at the lizard, who was starting to tap her footclaws with impatience.

"Thank ya, Miss. Where to?"

Sal followed the lizard into a handsome building that had been a higher-end inn before the Southern Army had repurposed it. She might even have cleaned it last month, the rat realized with a wry grin. Erk pointed to the stairwell.

"The zuite iz at the top of the right ztairwell. I will go get her breakfazt, you ztart cleaning the main room," the monitor said before trundling off. Sal ducked into the courtyard to fill her bucket with not-entirely-dirty water and shook some Fuller's Earth into it, returning the small packet to her apron before lugging the bucket and mop up the stairs, panting by the time she reached the top.

The rat set her bucket down and caught her breath before knocking at the door to the room. "'Ousekeepin'," Sal called out before she could catch herself. With a shake of her head, the rat let herself in, forgetting to shut the door at the sigh that greeted her.

Erk was right: the room WAS a mess. Torn wrapping paper and ribbons were strewn helter-skelter on the floor, along with a smashed violin and a green uniform jacket and skirt. A dressing table was strewn with papers, clothing, and half-open boxes of pastries, and a wastebasket next to it was filled with a bouquet of drooping flowers. An unmade bed dripped half its yellow-stained linens onto the floor, an open instrument case on the pillow. A patterned screen hid the far corner of the room from Sal's vision. The whole room reeked of gardenias.

The rat sighed and, stooping, began picking up the mess nearest the door. The sounds of water splashing and gurgling startled her, and Sal realized that the room's occupant (a female Southern officer, by the garments) was taking a bath on the other side of the screen. Her whiskers wriggling in embarrassment, the rat continued her work, methodically clearing a path to the dressing table. Unable to resist the force of habit, Sal scanned quickly through the papers before stacking them neatly, but found nothing of interest. As she put a stopper back in a half-empty bottle and set it upright, her sensitive nose twitched.

The rose oil was less overpowering now, just enough that Sal could detect a familiar odor of not-quite-Odde-Tinge mixed with some floral scent. The bottle read "Gardenia Allure." At the same time, a screeching, squawking noise from the tub set Sal's fur on end. The noise somehow transformed into a tune, accompanied by a female voice.

"Ohhhhh, Wasn't it a bit of luck that I was born a baby duck! With yellow socks and yellow shoes so I may go where ever I choose!"

Sal crept closer to the screen, mop in paw.

"Quack, Quack, Quack, Quack, Qua--EEEK!"

The weasel in the bubble-filled tub almost dropped her fiddle into the suds as Sal pushed the screen aside. A carved wooden duck with a hat on its pate sat forlornly on the tub's edge.

"I finally found ya, ya 'ussy!"

The weasel spluttered in the tub, trying desperately stay hidden behind the body of the fiddle in the decreasing layers of bubbles as Sal stood a mop-length away, paws on her hips. A fluffy dressing-gown hung on a coat tree just far enough away that the weasel couldn't reach it without leaving the tub.

"What? _What?_ I'm not--you're looking for the inn down the road, 'The Vixen's Claw'..."" Steep said, bewildered but with eyes narrowing.

"Can't say as I see what 'e saw in ya, ya 'ave scabs all over yer face," Sal replied tauntingly, unable to resist taking advantage of finding her enemy in such a compromising situation.

"I think," Steep said coldly, "you are horribly mistaken, rat. I advise you to scram!"

"I'll scram after I give ya a piece of my mind! What call did ya 'ave t' go makin' 'im do somethin' as dangerous as all that?"

The weasel looked temporarily baffled.

"...Bingo? Private Bingo? I didn't know he--he knew the risks! We all do!" she protested. Sal shook her head and laughed drily.

"No, ya daft wench, Pylaris! Pylaris Ruston! What'd ya do t' 'im? He got 'imself killed for ya!"

There was a pause during which the weasel carefully set her fiddle on the chair next to the tub before launching the wooden duck at Sal's head. As Sal moved to dodge the unusual missile, the weasel bolted out of the tub and clawed her way into the dressing gown.

"Who told--what are you blathering about? Get out!" she shouted as she picked up the coat tree and advanced on Sal.

As Steep came at her brandishing the coat tree, Sal backed away, holding her mop out across her body in an attempt at a defensive posture.

"Pylaris is dead an' I can prove it t' ya!" she shouted, losing ground under the onslaught of the rose-scented mustelid. "I've got a copy of t' Smelt in my pocket!"

"You shut up! Shut yer lying face, rat!"

As she let go of the mop with one paw to drag out the grease-stained paper, Sal left herself open to attack. With a flourish, Steep thrust the coat tree nearly into Sal's face. As the rat stepped back, frantically trying to swat the piece of furniture aside with the mop held in one paw, she felt her footpaws teetering on an edge. The weasel had forced her to the door she had thoughtlessly left open, and the flight of steep stairs loomed behind her.

Despite her concentration on keeping her balance and preparing to deal with the next advance of the coat tree, some part of Sal's mind was baffled to see a motley-plumed bird's head poke itself into the window visible over Steep's shoulder.

The expression of amazement on the bird's face mirrored that of the weasel in front of her as, arms and tail flailing in a vain attempt to keep her mass from continuing its natural inclination to assume ground level, Sal lost the fight with gravity.

As she fell, she heard several CRACKS followed by a loud SNAP that reverberated through her whole frame. The world went black and everything tasted fuzzy and smelled of salt and metal and Sal dimly heard with her last fading sense a strange voice speaking unintelligible words in her ear.

"'S not th' Captain," Sal thought with a split-second of sadness before she died.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It was a few moments before Sal realized she was in another place, able to see, smell, taste, feel, and hear again. Ahead, a pair of colossal gates slowly opened, and a fresh-smelling breeze blew from the forest revealed inside. As Sal walked slowly through the gates, she realized her paws left no impressions in the grass, but that didn't seem strange anymore. Not in this place, where quiet and contentment radiated from the shadows under the looming trees.

As she approached a tree, the rat realized she was not alone. Sitting under a tree was a handsome stoat Sal remembered well, concentrating on writing a letter in his lap. He looked up and waved at Sal as she gazed at him. Sal tentatively returned his wave, but then turned away. She wandered over to a glade she spied through some trees, and sat down by the small pool there to wait.

Sal didn't mind waiting.

end of week two. 


	34. Knuckledown

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week three.

**Chapter 33. Knuckledown  
**

_by Pleasantrie  
_

He knew the rat's neck shouldn't be angled like that. He knew that crimson foam meant she was dying. Still, the contorted mass was breathing. It was a shuddering, labored breathing, but --

"Ma'am! Miss! Please, could you just..." As Pip landed, he placed a claw on her shoulder and gave it firm shake. "Ma'am!"

The rat burbled once in response, the shake forcing her head to fall back to some semblance of normality. The sounds stopped, however.

"Oh Fates, 'ellgates, no..." Pip leaned down and gave a few sharp pecks. "Come on, miss, please."

"She's dead?" To Pip, the voice sounded emotionless.

"What's the matter with you, Captain?" Pip gave a short grunt as he straightened himself, regarding the weaselmaid with a beady stare.

"The matter with...? That lunatic bursts into my bath while I was sitting peacefully, enjoying myself! The Duck Song! And then, then she's screaming and threat--"

"You know what I mean." The bird's voice was low, but it cut across the space between them, bringing silence in its wake. Pip began to ascend, hopping up the stairs in pairs. "You think I didn't do my research before I applied for this position? Captain Steep, my old officer. The most professional beast in the army, on-duty. You don't think I know that, other than our little mistake from two years ago, you've got a record more pristine than General Scott's virtue? Why do you think _I_ requested _you_?"

"What are you on about?" The weasel took a step back, allowing her messenger in the door. She turned and shifted the coat rack back into place, making a face at the wobble it received from the fight.

"You killed a civilian, Captain. You. And Fates know who she was or why she was here."

"And they're the only ones who know. She sure wasn't telling me." Steep moved to the bed, snatching the rum bottle that lay there. "What's got you in a tizzy? You've been in the Navy for _years_, Pip. I know this isn't the first beast you've seen."

"A tizzy? I--" The bird cut himself off and moved to the window, shaking his head. "Look, Steep, I've --"

"Look, what?"

"Captain, sorry."

She waved a paw for him to continue. "Look... I've been a seabeast, sure, but I've always made sure the orders I gave were honorable ones: take prisoners, don't harm civilians, keep collateral damage to a minimum, don't promote carnage, things like that."

The room was silent for a long while, as Steep drained the last few drops from the bottle. Without looking over her shoulder, she asked him, "You... made sure?"

"She was a civilian, Captain! You kill another sodier, it's terrible, but it happens. They're... property of their country or sommat. It's not _killing_. This was murder!"

"I don't know what backwards-thinking, muck-infested nest spawned your brain, Pip, but self-defense is not murder."

"Self-defense? She was armed with a mop!"

"She wanted me dead. Me! Your _Captain_. Where is your loyalty, soldier? She was just a cleaning maid gone too far past her station!"

"What, worried she'd scrub out your ears too hard?"

"Oh, shut up! Go fetch Erk!" The weasel made for the washroom, paws attacking the ground as if every ounce of frustration was channeled through them to create the perfect stomp.

"You'll let me finish!" Pip took to the air with a snarl and landed next to the washroom door. "I've seen you take down a squad of beasts. You were able to detain Mr. Wright in a moment, without killing him. You're not one of Drua's slobbering savages; how does a well-trained _officer_ lose discipline when fighting a maid? Just listen to that, _fighting a maid_!"

"Back. Off."

"I know you've been on edge since you've come back to Bully Harbour, but this is getting --"

Steep gave a hard shove, pinning him against the wall with a single paw against his shoulder. "What was I supposed to do, featherbrains? She busted in and was screeching about -- screeching like an amputated ferret!"

Pip cried out as the pressure on his recently-dislocated shoulder sent lancets of pain through his arm and up his neck. "Gah!"

Steep released him after a moment, then gave a contemptuous snort. "You've never fought a beast in your life, Pip. You wouldn't understand."

"Understand?" Pip's voice escaped through a clenched beak. "I understand that you killed an innocent beast for _yelling at you_. I know you widdle the bed like a kit, but words don't actually hurt, you --"

The kick to his gut silenced the bird and a dressing gown-clad, fanged visage leaned in close. "Get out, Pip. Before I send you after her."

Pip rose to his claws and limped halfway to the door before turning around. He gave a scowl. "She could've been somebeast's mother, Steep. I think you, of all beasts, would remember what it's like to have a mother killed senselessly by soldiers."

Even in a dressing gown and after copious amounts of rum, Steep moved like a streak. She grabbed an empty bottle from the bed and flung it. Pip felt his left side erupt in fiery pain. He screamed, staggering away from the weasel. He was cut off by a second blow, however; this one lofted him into the stairwell and carried him back against a soft cushion on the lower landing. The words she screeched at him washed over the bird in an unintelligible fog.

He heard the door slam. After a time, Pip levered himself upright. He set his beak.

_That does it, then._

Moving gingerly, he set off down the hall to the woodlander's room. He gave the door a soft knock.

"What is it?" It was Llu who answered the door. "Oh, it's Pip... What on earth..."

"Cor, mate. What 'appened to you?"

"Lieutenant Llu, there's a corpse at the foot of the stairs to the Captain's chambers. I need you to see it gets a proper burial."

"Sure, Pip. What happened? We heard the screechin'. We thought the boss was having one of her tizzies..."

Pip leaned in and whispered past the mouse, "Whatever the Southern Liberation Army requires of me, they'll get it."

"What?" The mouse's head shot back and she regarded Pip with a confused look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ask your mates." Pip nodded his beak toward them and caught Ruby's eye. "I've got to head back upstairs. Just let me know what you need and I'll get it somehow. I've not forgotten who I've been suffering through 'ell's teeth for. Sure isn't that insane..."

"Burr, best get thee 'ence, zurr burd."

Pip paused at the foot of the stairs, where a small piece of paper had fallen. It looked like detritus at a glance, but the picture.. _It must be that Ruston lad they were yelling about._ He ferreted the paper away in his messenger tube.

The ascent up the stairs seemed endless, his body tensing as he neared Steep's door.

He gave a light knock. "Captain... the troops are removing the body, now."

No reply.

He cleared his throat and called out, "Cabin Bird First Class Pleasantrie, reporting for duty."

_And once I've paid you back, Captain, I'm through._

The door opened, and a now-uniformed Steep stood before him, glaring down.

_I'll be through. Just after that. Just going to do my duty._

"You bring form 40b? The 'Accidental death of serving staff in officer's presence by architectural instability' one?" With a grunt, she kicked off a piece of the railing.

"Packed a copy of each of the 'death' series in your things before we left. As a precaution, ma'am."

_Maybe one more chance..._

She snorted. "Come in, then."

"Yes, Captain."


	35. Someone Else's Arms

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 34. Someone Else's Arms  
**

_by Soriss  
_

Away from the angry gazes of the crewbeasts, Soriss stood in the cool darkness of the tunnel kitchen and let out the first calm breath in weeks. He tied the corners of the Imperial flag he'd found tighter around his neck, tucking the edges behind his shoulders in preparation.

He could practically feel the auras of the utensils, pots, and pans lining the shelves around him. The monitor strolled around the wooden island in the center of the kitchen, his claws stroking the dangling handles and making them rattle softly together. The tension finally eased from his scales.

Soriss pressed his back against the cool of the storage door and slid down. He missed Sal. He missed Wazzock, even -- mostly because the rat needed to take back command. Hugging himself, Soriss hit his head lightly against the door, wincing with frustration.

He knew Kriley wanted him dead -- the muttering of the crewbeasts had made that clear enough. What was tearing him up so badly was that Kriley had no idea how _gladly_ the monitor would walk away from the first mate position...only Wazzock was counting on him. The Captain's earnest smile floated into view, and Soriss swatted it away.

No time for thinking. Only cooking.

Once on his footclaws, Soriss fumbled about for a lantern. He found one hanging by the door, which he lit by scraping his knives together. His claws closed around the knife handles, reassuringly heavy and real. Their return had been a blissful, if wary, moment for the monitor: Kriley had grudgingly left them on a rock while Soriss stretched to reach them from a safe distance.

His last thought before setting to task of browsing the stores was, _I hope Gloria doessn't misss me._

Of course she didn't. No one ever did.

He found several large armfuls of sprouting baby red potatoes and tossed them onto the island. Next came eight squishy carrots, thirteen firm ones, two clawfuls of garlic, some pungent yellow onions, and a variety of fresh herbs. A perusal of the cabinets turned up some dried beans; wide, fat noodles; brown salt-sauce; some dried tomatoes; and two large sacks of flour.

After finding an adequate supply of fish heads carefully preserved between thin slabs of ice, Soriss started boiling a large pot of water in the fireplace, tossing in the fish heads, carrot tops, and roughly chopped onions. Five bay leaves danced merrily on the bubbling surface.

"Ssorisss, masster cchef, at your sservicce, ssire!" The monitor danced around the island, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he imagined some grateful, fat benefactor leaning down to take the proffered bowl of soup. To work in a royal kitchen with everything he could ever want or learn to use right at his clawtips! It was his dream -- his secret, which he played out whenever he was alone in a kitchen.

His knives did a jig along the carrots' lengths, cutting them into nibble-sized bits. He then carved out the sprouts on the potatoes and chopped them too, humming an off-tune anthem he'd composed himself. It was for the imaginary kingdom where he would someday work and become famous.

_Ssquirrelsss -- with trumpetsss -- eating my crumpetsss!_ Soriss giggled to himself. He loved rhymes.

Potatoes, skins, sprouts, and all, glopped into the pot. The beans he picked through and rinsed, soaking them until the broth was ready and he scooped out the fish heads with a slotted spoon. In the smaller fireplace, he started another pot of well-salted water boiling.

Salt-sauce pasta with dried tomatoes and a bean and potato soup. All in all, he thought, not a bad meal with which to get back into the rhythms of his craft. Basic, yes, but when one was cooking for a small army, one had to pick foods easily made in large quantities.

"Here'sss hoping a ssimple ssoup will keep them ssatissfied," he said as he sautéed minced garlic with slivers of fresh basil and flakes of dried oregano. He took a sniff, then set down the spoon and pulled the pan from the heat. "They don't sseem a picky lot."

He turned and started to shred mint leaves into a pulp.

"No, not s'much, that lot," came a grunt from the kitchen door.

Soriss jumped, but continued the movements of his knife without missing a beat. "I trusst they will enjoy ssome mint tartsss, too?" he asked the stoat who had just appeared.

Gloria lazily watched her claw peel patterns into the doorframe. "Anybeastie here'd be grateful for a biscuit."

Under his claws, the monitor felt his knife rattling more than he intended. He swallowed, trying to disguise his unease at her presence. "I can ccertainly accommodate bisscuitsss, Captain."

"Never ye mind that, Mr. Soriss. I actually came down t'ask ye t'make up some special drinks. We've a bit of morale boosting t'do." Gloria leered at him, moving further into the kitchen. She paused, her nose twitching. "What's in the pot, then?"

He couldn't read her expression. "Err...bean and potato ssoup, ma'am."

"That so?" Her nose continued to twitch, and then something that probably would have been a friendly smile on any other beast contorted her face. "Smells nice. Make mine a bit spicy, eh?"

Relief made Soriss's bow deep. "Yesss, ma'am."

He turned his eyes downward, hoping he'd mastered at least this convention of furrybeasts' body language, but Gloria only came closer. She seemed to be doing a weird swaying dance, her eyes focusing everywhere but his face.

Then her hook slammed into the island's wood right next to his arm. This time, his knife did slip, nicking several scales off his outer claw. He stifled a yelp and pulled it to his jaws, his tongue flicking out to catch the blood.

He looked up to see blood -- _his_ blood -- dancing in the stoat's greedy eyes. "I've half a mind t'dispose of ye now and replace ye with that pansy, Lord Clover. I need competence, _Mr. Soriss_." The way she spat his name made his claw throb with otherworldly pain. "I don't need a cook leading those fool Navybeasts. I need a creature with ambition, with the ability t'make something of himself."

Despite being almost a head shorter than him, she was looking down on him. Just like Master Chef Rassey, the scrawny little ferret, when he handed Soriss his official Culinaria Imperium Artisanal diploma. Just like Borden Hurst, the head poisoner, when he opened the door that stormy night to let in the disoriented, sodden lizard and offer him a lowly position. Just like Kriley, Captain Steep -- even some of his own kind back on his island. Their lack of confidence still stung.

He straightened, set his jaw.

"Then go find ssomebeasst," he said.

Gloria's ears flattened, but she was smirking again. A dagger appeared in her paw, walking along the edge of the island in tandem with her hook.

"Really? Is that all ye've got, Mr. Soriss? I expected more from the First Mate of the _Stormchaser_." She stifled a yawn with the blade. "I even expected more from a _lizard_."

Her eyes darted left to gauge his reaction.

Soriss knew what he wanted to see, but he couldn't stop himself from lunging his bulk across the island, his chopping knife raised. It clanged against her dagger, reverberating deep in the bones of his arm, but he held steady. Their gazes and weapons locked, she glared at him, her eyes full of embers being stirred. His were as flat and dead as a lizard's could be.

"Sstep back and give me a chancce."

The moment the words left his mouth, Soriss felt his confidence waver. Surely she would kill him. Or worse yet, if she were into subtleties, she would strip him of his knives and title and make him fight like a common soldier.

She was neither subtle nor, it seemed, a murderess. Instead, the tip of her blade flicked down and ripped more scales off his wounds. Soriss fell forward, his weight behind his knife, and gurgled as he felt blood and onion juice from the chopping block trade places. Gloria's steel poked at his neck.

"Then show me," she hissed into his ear.

The heat from the fires warmed Soriss's tail; he felt the boiling of the soup empathetically, and his muscles started to quiver. Flattening his head against the wood, he rolled out, grateful and surprised when he stood and found the ligaments of his neck still intact.

That insufferable smirk still lingered at the edges of the stoat's whiskers. "Yer not half shipe when I make it easy for ye."

Heat still warmed the monitor's blood. His claws scrabbling behind him, he felt the weight of a frying pan and tightened his arm as if to hurl it. Then he thought better of it. This wench -- he mentally excused himself for language -- didn't deserve death by pan. It was too good for her.

Instead, he snatched up the remaining unchopped carrots and hurled them at her head. Chuckling, she merely raised her arm to block the offensive.

Soriss's confidence took another plunge. What the 'Gates did he think he was doing? Trying to _fight_? This would only get him as far as his school-age coconutter skills had gotten him -- out the door on a stretcher before the first minute was up. He curled into himself, making Gloria laugh again.

"That all the spirit ye have in ye, Mr. Soriss?" She began to pace around the island, shaking her head and tutting. "Or are ye all out of moti_vation_!"

Her last two syllables were emphasized by the grunt of air leaving her body as her wiry form lunged forward and wrestled Soriss against the island. He was too surprised to fight back as she pinned him by his wounded arm and ever so slowly peeled away more scales with her dagger.

The monitor thrashed wildly, striking the stoat in the chest and shoving her backward. She flailed, slamming into the countertop opposite and crying out as the sharp angle dug into her spine, forcing her to all fours. Soriss collapsed against the island, facing her. A moment of silence stretched out as monitor and stoat collected themselves.

"Henh..." Gloria bared her teeth in a feral grin. "That's what I like t'see, Mr. Soriss. Don't ye --"

_Boom._

Everything rattled. The pot fell against the stones in the fireplace, Soriss's knives hit the ground on either side of his footclaws, and several pans fell off their hooks and crashed down on the counter towards Gloria. She leaped onto her feet, grasping her back and wincing, her whole body pointing toward the door.

"The flour!" she rasped, and grinned. "Heh... hope the General enjoyed his present, the thick-headed thistle-brained cheese-breathing lollygagger."

Soriss sat panting, his eyes flicking from one knife to the other. He looked down at his arm. The blood was starting to congeal, but still oozed between his scales. He suddenly felt sick.

Another explosion rocked the kitchen. The distinct slosh of water over a pot made the monitor roll onto his stomach and push himself up -- only to find himself snout-to-muzzle with Gloria.

He didn't feel any particular sort of fear at the still-dangerous glint in her eyes, just a measure of pride.

"Move. The noodlesss are going to sspill."

One of her brows arched. "Still a bit of fight in ye, then?"

"Pleasse. Move." Soriss's arm ached, and he longed to slap some cool herbs on it, but the stoat was being _so_ persistent and the pain dulled his sense of self-preservation. He just wanted her to go away and let him finish his soup.

"Captain Ruzton, explain yourzelf immediately!"

The shrill voice jolted them both, snapping Gloria to attention with a grunt of pain and sending Soriss diving behind the island for safety. He peered around the edge and almost swallowed his tongue.

Draped in regal robes that did nothing to disguise her excessive folds and wrinkles, a tall, skinny monitor lizard stood in the doorway, her claws on either side of the frame. Her eyes were just a little buggy, but her tongue, which flickered in Gloria's direction, was the most beautiful shade of blue Soriss had ever seen.

"Lady Akilina... I'm terrible surprised t'see ye in the Unsmudgable HQ." Gloria's military instinct seemed to wear off, though her general wariness remained. "How _did_ the MinoMis find her way down here t'plague me when she's s'posed t'be playing court jester in Amarone?"

Akilina swept into the room and stole the breath from Soriss's lungs as she nearly pirouetted toward them. Behind her trailed a pair of foxes dolled up in similar outfits, the red of which clashed horribly with their protruding tails. Nevertheless, they looked formidable as they gripped their pikes and moved to flank the female.

"What iz the meaning of theze explozionz?" Akilina said, folding her exceptionally wrinkly arms across her chest. "Are you trying to deztroy the manzion? Thiz iz not what we commizzioned you to do, Captain!"

One of the fox guards saw Soriss before the monitor could duck back out of sight.

"Oy! There's a lizard unner th' table!"

"It'sss not a table," Soriss couldn't help but protest as he stood up. "It'sss an island."

Akilina let out a _scream_. "Ahhhhh! He'z _naked_!"

Bewildered, Soriss looked down at himself. He saw the knot of the flag at his neck and gripped it, shaking it meaningfully in her direction. Then the last of his self-confidence fled, and, his face warming, he whirled back on his pots.

"Lady, mayhaps we should discuss business where prying ears aren't privy t'our conversations," Gloria said behind him. "Mr. Soriss'll bring us lunch when it's ready, I fair wager. In the meanwhile, ye can tell me what the 'Gates is going on."

"Ugh! How do you let zuch a bare beazt make your vittlez?!" Akilina could be heard screeching as they left.

The wake of their departure blew out Soriss's lantern, but his claws kept stirring mechanically.

Rejected for who he was. Again.

It was really starting to bother him.

"Beetlesss," he muttered, and threw the beans into the pot with a vengeance.


	36. Children

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 35. Children  
**

_by Lock  
_

Ms. Agatha Dumple triumphantly produced a bottle of non-alcoholic cranberry juice out of her pantry. "There we are, knew I still had some left." Clawing the dusty cork out of the green glass, the stoat-wife who owned the _Pies and More Pies_ cafe poured the still fresh cranberry juice into a small mug. Weaving her way through the empty tables, barely visible in the early dawn light shining through the windows, Agatha arrived at her lone patron's table. "Can't say I've ever had somebeast ask for this straight, but you're more than welcome to it, Mr. Lock."

The fox looked up from the peach pie he was inhaling and accepted the mug with a nod of thanks. "Your ability to actually produce something non-alcoholic is a tribute to your talents, Ms. Dumple. I had begun to think that such a request was an impossible feat in this Harbour."

Agatha waved an embarrassed paw at the compliment. "Aw, s'nothing. Anything for me first customer since this war thing started. And you needn't worry about silly things like poisonings or the such."

Lock raised his eyebrow, fixing the stoat with a steely glare, causing Agatha to wonder if the fox had caught on to her joke. "Madame, if it were to cross my mind that you had any intentions of lacing my pie, I would have you arrested here and now for ruining an otherwise delicious pie." A subtle wink and a smile appeared on his tired featured. "Though I should think having it announced that the General of the Southern Army was slain by a piece of peach pie would look rather silly in my eulogy."

Pleased that her guest seemed in good spirits, Agatha laughed loud in appreciation. All that stuff going around about supporting the local defence against the vile Southern barbarians was a load of malarkey. If the South hadn't invaded, then there would be some revolution against the Empire, or the Minister of Misanthropy would be lopping off heads for no reason. One war was as good as the next, and there was no sense in holding it against potential customers. "Well, if you're that particular about it, Mr. Lock, I'll just leave your pie be. Fates above, but you're tearing into that thing! It's just as well you're my only customer at this time of the morning, or I should think I'd be out of food before long."

Wiping the crumbs apologetically from his mouth, Lock shrugged. "It's a fondness I've always had. I recall as a child being caught for pilfering from the bakery. They caught me because I insisted on taking one slice from each pie. I had no plates, so I stacked each slice one atop of the other. So when I actually tried to pick up my gains, the entire thing teetered over and fell right on my head." The memory caused Lock's shoulders to shake with mirth, and despite his best efforts, the fox eventually made the slightest of audible chuckling noises. "They found me stuck to the floor, and they had to dig out a spatula just to get me up!"

"What a sight y'must have been! I fancy your parents must of had a few words with you over that."

"Oh, yes, they did, and I believe I was grounded for several weeks. The part that annoyed me, however, was that I was to wash off all the pie remains without even getting to save some of it. Seemed like such a waste." Finishing of his slice of peach pie, Lock pushed the plate aside. "Oddly, I never cared for blueberry pie. It's the pips, you see. They get caught in my teeth, and I spend hours trying to pry them out with my tongue."

"I have the same problem with raspberry jam. Course, I haven't made any since the Unsmudgables nicked my posts to make helmets." Agatha raised her paws in the air in mock exasperation. "Pots as helmets! No wonder we lost! And I'm having a horror of a time making custard without them."

"Without the pots, or without the Unsmudgables?"

"Oh, the pots, of course," Agatha laughed. Making custard out of Unsmudgables sounded disgusting. "'Tis a great pity, custard making was good fun. I liked the noises it made when y'brought it to a boil. Somewhat of a hobby of mine, y'might say. What d'you have for hobbies, Mr. Lock."

The fox opened his mouth, but no sound came out, as if he forgot what he was going to say, if indeed he had anything to say at all. Looking blank, he tapped his claw on the table top, in deep thought. "I... don't suppose I have any."

"Oh, come now, y'must have something to do in your time off?"

Lock shook his head in a negative. "I don't really have time off. Running the army is a full time occupier. There's lists to check and statistics to memorize, orders to send and requisitions to pass. I spend most of my time deciding how other beasts are to spend their time."

The stoat wrinkled her nose. "Sounds dull t'me. Couldn't y'get other lackeys t'do all that?"

Lock grimaced at the thought. "They always do it wrong, or they put things off and forget to finish them. If I do everything myself, I know it's getting done." He could visualize somebeast like that Wazzock fellow tossing aside a report on ammunition requisitions because there were too many numbers involved. The General bitterly sipped his cranberry juice.

"Alright, then, what'd y'do for fun _before_ y'became a General?"

Placing his juice down, Lock's expression softened a bit, tapping the table top as his memories came back. What _did_ he do before he became a General? The word had eluded him for a second, before he finally managed to say, "Fishing." _Fishing._ He hadn't even thought about fishing in years, and had quite forgotten that he liked it at all. When was the last time he had gone...?

Agatha was a bit taken aback. The fox didn't seem like the fishing type. "I didn't take you t'be the mariner type, Mr. Lock."

"Oh, not deep sea fishing or anything like that. Just a matter of taking a small boat into a lake and seeing what you could catch." He _had_ liked fishing, hadn't he? No one pestering him with their petty "problems," no one wasting his time. Just Lock and the serene quietness of a lake. Catching anything was a minor point: what really mattered was the act of going fishing. When _was_ the last time he had gone? "I haven't done it in years, though."

"Well, if y'liked it that much, why'd y'give it up?"

"After being promoted, I suppose I had other things to tend to. Papers and forms stacked up that needed dealing with, and there just wasn't time for silly games any more." Silly games, that's all hobbies were. Took away from valuable work time. Everyone was far too concerned with their hobbies. You could get more work done without them.

Seeing the fox was busy thinking about something or rather, Agatha decided to leave him be. "Well, I must be tending to my baking now. I'm trying my paws at blackberry and rhubarb pie today. If y'wait about an hour, I might be able t'slip you a sample, Mr. Lock."

The fox sipped his juice, looking out the window at the rising sun. He really needed to be getting back to work. The plans for a march on the capital city of Amarone had to be tackled today, and handling the logistical morass involved in a winter march would take half the day. "I should love to take you up on that offer, Ms. Dumple, but if my secretary doesn't see me every five minutes, he thinks I've died."

"Actually, I only begin to worry after half an hour."

The mug of juice flew across the cafe as Lock's arm jolted from the shock of Darcy appearing in the chair next to him. Digging his claws into the table, the fox made sure he hadn't suffered a heart attack before saying, "Major Darcy, I believe you have already received explicit orders to never do that again."

The rat seemed on edge about something other than spooking the General. "I'm sorry, sir, but we've got a bit of a problem, and I think you need to hear it."

"We always have a bit of a problem that I need to hear about. What is it now?" Darcy paused after noticing Agatha was still present, and then leaned and whispered into Lock's ear. Lock's face turned cold and emotionless as he listened, yet before Darcy had finished, the General banged his fist on the table, causing both the rat and stoat to jump. Too livid to articulate his displeasure, Lock angrily dug out the proper amount of money for his food and drink, placed it on the table, and limped hurriedly out of _Pies and More Pies_, with Major Darcy scuttling in his wake.

Agatha Dumple was surprised at this outburst of temper. Mr. Lock had struck her as quite a pleasant fellow, if a bit on the quiet side. She wondered what could have worked him into such a snit.

"What were you thinking?!" yelled General Lock, after returning to his Funeral Home headquarters. "One of the first orders given upon landing was that civilians were to not be harmed in order to avoid retaliation, and yet you feel compelled to push one down a flight of stairs? Does that _sound_ like following orders to you?"

Captain Steep didn't seem to understand why every beast was so intent on yelling at her today. "Because I escorted her to the stairs," Steep said stiffly. "I don't wait to be injured first. She came at me while I was in the bath, ranting like a lunatic, trying to hit me. I pushed her back. She slipped. The railing broke. It was an accident."

"Then would you care to explain why you are in perfect condition, unscarred from the encounter, and Ms. Lightfoot is dead?"

"Because I got her before she got me," Steep sniffed. "I don't _enjoy_ waiting to be killed first. Besides, she ruined my bath."

If the weasel expected some kind of sympathy on the latter point, she was sorely mistaken. "She ruined your... you..." Lock stared incredulously at Steep. That was her justification? Her _bath_ was interrupted? "We're facing a propaganda problem of mountainous proportions and you come to me about bathes?"

"Among other things..."

"Shut up!" Lock pointed at Steep, his head feeling like it was on fire. "Children are to be seen and not heard, and until you decide to start acting like an adult, you will not speak until I tell you."

Captain Steep's eyes flashed, and Lock saw that her paw considered going for her sword. "That is not a fair accustation..."

Lock jumped up from his chair. "It is a fair accusation, because that is what you have presented yourself to be in your time in this army: child-like. You act as if orders and regulations apply to everyone but yourself. While the rest of the officers have to spend their time actually doing their job, Captain Steep and her merry gang get to gallivant about town and do whatever they please."

"I do not _gallivant_, sir..."

"Is that a fact?" Lock sneered. "Then perhaps you'd like to explain why, when I gave you explicit instructions to hold a beach head during the invasion, you deserted your unit, left the entire operation without command, and rather than do anything remotely useful, holed yourself up inside a bar?!"

Steep's expression turned from mild belligerence to outright anger. "Me and Private Devonshire _alone_ secured the immediate front lines at the Local Docks, General. If you think I'm capable of holding a beachhead with one soldier, then I'm flattered, but I could not wait for Captain Terion's regiment to get ashore. I did not drink," she added quietly.

"_It doesn't matter_! What matters is you were absent without leave for the entire battle so you could wallow in self indulgence inside a bloody _bar_!" Lock felt slightly feverish, but refused to sit down. "Desertion, ignoring orders, pursuing personal interests before duty. And after you fed me that story about your drinking problems not having any effect on your role as Captain! Does that _sound_ professional to you? Does that _sound_ like something an adult would do?!"

Steep opened her mouth in an apparent attempt to protest, but fell silent instead.

"And now this! Killing a civilian over a personal squabble. The papers only need to get a hint of this, the headlines will go up about "Southern Brutality," and we'll have to deal with riots as well as Gloria Ruston."

On cue, a cagey looking cat came through the door, ignoring the attempts from Major Darcy to stall her. "Talley Tipson of the _Flatfish_ here, General Lock. Would it be possible to get an interview with you?" A pad of paper and pen were at the ready as if concession had already been given.

"Get her out of here!" roared the General, his fury giving Darcy extra motivation to force Tipson back through the door, slamming it shut. Slumping back into his chair, Lock went for his glass of water, went to take a sip, and instead slammed it down in frustration. He doubted yelling at reporters would help much either... and right after a lecture on handling the media. Lock didn't want to think about the irony. He didn't want to deal with snotty reporters, he didn't want to deal with insubordinate officers, he didn't want to deal with spies who kept dying or a secret project that kept getting harder to do.

When _was_ the last time he had gone fishing...

It took a few seconds to remember Captain Steep was still here. Lock was depressed, and didn't feel like yelling anymore. Placing his paws atop the desk in an official manner, the fox started at the weasel. "Captain Steep, as of right now, I am considering removing you from your command."

At least that got a reaction, if the widened eyes on the Captain were any indication.

"You have two strikes against you, Captain Steep: being AWOL during battle, and the killing of a civilian. A third strike will result in your immediate termination. I suggest you pull your socks up. Dismissed."

To his surprise, Steep saluted before she turned to leave. Lock had thought she would make a completely different gesture. Before exiting the door, the weasel paused. "If I may inquire, sir, is your old contact really dead?"

"Yes." What did that have to do with anything?

Nodding, Captain Steep left the office.

Her presence was replaced by a frazzled looking Major Darcy, who was trying to straighten out his spectacles. "That loony female hit me!"

Lock raised an eyebrow at the rat's ruffled appearance. "Which one?"

"That reporter cat! She started going on about freedom of the press and the right to know things, and I told her that most cats probably preferred remaining ignorant. And I think she took it badly. Oh, and Captain Steep told me to get out of her way."

"Hm." The fox went back for his glass of water, now sitting in a ring of its own contents. The water made a nice, shimmering effect as he brought the glass to his mouth. He wondered how much a boat cost... The General scowled. No time for things like that. Silly pet projects in the middle of a war. Honestly. "I don't suppose there was any news about that Wazzock that was with Sal?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. He's off on his own. Though that might mean he's found something and is working on it."

That was what he had better be doing, Lock thought. Why did _Sal_ have to be the one to die? She was one of the very few subordinates he had that called him Sir as if she meant it. Wazzock would have been substantially less missed. And still nothing on Ballroom Dance...

Having straightened his glasses and pushed them back on his nose, Darcy added, "Oh, and General Scott is here to see you as well."

Lock was sick of every beast in the world right about now. Falling back into his chair, he placed an exhausted arm over his eyes. "Tell him I've died and everyone can go back to living their sugar-coated, air-filled lives." There was a space of five seconds before Lock finally asked, "Major Darcy, why is General Scott here?"

"I don't quite know, sir. I think he's just coming to see how things are going. I had him wait in the embalming room so he wouldn't hear you yelling at his fiancé."

Lock's day was not getting much better by the second. "I suppose I'll have to see him. Tell General Scott to come in." As Darcy left to relay the greeting, Lock glanced at his reflection in the glass of water. He hadn't had much of a chance to clean himself over the last few days, but that was no concern. What mattered was that when General Scott came in the door, he didn't get the impression that Lock was about to keel over. The blow-up with Steep had left him looking wan and ragged. Combing his ears with his claws to make them look healthier, Lock tried massaging his cheeks to make them look less gaunt and pale.

The tell-tale clacking of wheels slowly approaching the office made Lock's heart flip. Rising from his chair, with some pain, he managed to stand up straight, chest out, and brushed out the wrinkles in his coat to give the impression he had been standing for some time. No sooner had he realized he had left some of his medicine laying out on his desk than the great weasel General Scott rolled into the office in his wheel chair, pushed by a vexed Major Darcy.

"Ah, General Lock, old boy!" the weasel greeted. "I'm glad to see you're doing well. Not as sick as a fish, that's good."

"General Scott," Lock responded with a salute. "My pleasure, as always." He walked, with some difficulty, closer to the weasel, just to show that he could. "We weren't expecting you to arrive for some time."

Scott shrugged in a care free manner. "I just thought a General in Chief ought to see what his Armies are up to. I take it the invasion went well?"

"Very well, sir. My objections to operating in winter were proven to be incorrect."

"Of course they were!" Scott remarked, as if the wise, old leader was divulging some lesson to a younger pupil. "I told you we had nothing to fear. All the problems we have, the enemy will have as well! You worry more than an old toad, Lock."

Placing one paw inside his coat pocket so he could clench a fist unseen, Lock conceded. "Very good, sir. Though things have gone well under my management in spite of my hesitance."

Scott nodded. "So it would seem. Still some problems though. What's this I hear about resistance still existing?"

"A minor problem, General, a few upstarts that don't realize they've lost. They won't be an issue much longer."

That didn't seem to placate the General in Chief. "Not a good thing, having the enemy running around in your back yard. You ought to take action, General, direct action!"

_If you want to waddle up and face Gloria, be my guest._ "Very astute, General."

"You haven't been fainting like a stoat-wife again and been putting things off, have you?"

Lock forced a laugh. "Of course not. The healer's have patched me up entirely. No issues at all with my health, isn't that right, Major Darcy?"

The rat nodded happily. "That's right, fit as a fiddle. He was running around so much during the battle that I couldn't catch him."

Pleased that Darcy was playing his role, Lock played another card. "Given that I have shown myself to be fully capable of leading, and not liable to die at any second, I believe General Drua's presence is no longer needed." The vixen had been tacked on to the army so that there would be a ranking officer if Lock fell under the weather. The very thought of it made Lock's teeth bare.

General Scott rubbed his stomach thoughtfully. "I shall consider it. Now," he said, lowering his voice, "how goes Ballroom Dance?"

Lock had hoped the weasel had forgotten Ballroom Dance entirely while having a miniature heart attack. It appeared some things were too much to wish for. "I'm afraid... it's been complicated, General Scott."

Scott's jowls shook at the news. "What, what? Complicated, you say? How so?"

"The son of Lord William informed the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard that the Southern Empire was searching for a weapon within the Vulpinsula. Furthermore, the contact we had researching the whereabouts of Dance Partner has perished, as has his replacement."

General Lock grimaced until Scott stopped quivering. "Why, that's preposterous! Dangerous! A very stupid thing to have happen on your part. You must act swiftly to save things, Lock, or the whole project will fall apart!"

"The thought had occurred to me, sir."

General Scott seemed to resent the notion that Lock had perceived the problem before him. "And what is your plan, hm?"

Sighing, Lock had to make it up on the spot. "As one of the last memos we received from our contact mentioned details on Ballroom Dance being held at the Minister of Innovations' office, I had thought to send Major Darcy, along with an escort, to see if he could find anything out."

Major Darcy mouthed "Me?" in silence. Lock nodded. Darcy looked put out.

Scott had no real problems with the plan, but he wanted to add something himself, just to make it look like his idea. "As for the escort, I nominate my own dear Steep's regiment. She'll get the job done."

Lock grimaced. "I don't think..." _That correcting the officer who already thought you were unfit to command was a good idea._ "...that that will be a problem. See to it that the orders are delivered, Major Darcy."

"Yes, sir," the rat said half-heartedly, shoulders drooping as he left the office.

The great weasel placed his paws atop his stomach. "Now then, General Lock, just to make sure you haven't any more screw-ups, I should like see your daily reports since the landing, as well as your messages concerning Ballroom Dance."

Lock wouldn't be going fishing today.


	37. Non Lorem Ipsum

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 36. Non Lorem Ipsum  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

Captain Wazzock chewed on the memories of the recent past, checking the flavor, and found the aftertaste bland in his mouth. The entire Lock conversation became hazier the longer he looked back on it. It lacked sense and reason. Not that he felt those two items usually had much weight in normal teeth-to-the-bone conflicts, but still, something felt off.

Perhaps because he was carrying out the orders of General Lock of the Southern Army, who, by most accounts, wanted to devour the inhabitants of the Vulpine Imperium and pick out the remains from his teeth. Wazzock clomped down the street, glad he had not given his boots to Soriss in the first act of the war, mostly because of the charming sound that accompanied him on Bully Harbour streets. He knew some beasts could do without footpaw-wear, and more than once heard drunken rants of the freedom it gave (but then, these creatures usually lacked pants and were singing the Imperial Anthem into an empty mug).

He tugged at his whiskers, hoping Miss Sal was all right, going to that building to catch some needed sleep. He had his worries, but she said she was fine… He looked back down the street, buildings looming on either side, sunlight nibbling along the edges of the horizon, leaving colored bitemarks, from lavender to cherry, mingling with a winter haze. The void of creatures weighed on his heart. The coat still itched his shoulders. He would need to find a tailor at some point, to get the right sense of movement when he flailed his arms. If a creature couldn't flail properly, it limited them greatly in all manner of tactics.

He suddenly knew what it was he lacked: the Stormchaser crew. The rat removed the feather from his cap (amazingly still intact after the events of the past two days) and nibbled on it. Words emerged as he chewed and walked.

_"You'll make a horrible captain, Mr. Pike," the MinoWar Baltsar said, not looking up from some documents that even_ sounded _important when the weasel shuffled them._

"That is a fantastic point, sir. I've not a dash of captain blood in my veins. If anything, I might have a dash of mouse on my mum's side…never quiet understood what imparted there. I'm told it involved pickles, though. Never met a mouse…"

"That is why I am making you captain of the Stormchaser_."_

Wazzock frowned. "Mr. MinoWar. That's the fastest boat in the harbor and a dear friend, as I've learned cleaning her decks. Getting bloodstains off the wood is…however, I guess that's not the point. You see, I'm not a captain."

"Fantastic. You amuse me, Mr. Pike, and in any other situation, I would have you executed for mere idiocy. But, from the reports, you have a certain flair for… instinctual leadership."

"Isn't that what happened when I was young and I got scared and I piddled myself?" Wazzock said, with complete seriousness.

"And you amuse me again. Certainly, this may bite me in the tail, and even if you fail and are executed later, I believe I shall remain amused. You are dismissed, Captain Pike.

Wazzock stood at the threshold of the Ministry or Innovation. Not as pointy as the Ministry of War, he thought. He took a final look down the street, feeling a pang of guilt at leaving Miss Sal behind. Such a fine rat lass. It was for the best she was taking a nap, really. She had been enough danger the last few days as it was. He began to have doubts about her as he thought back, but nothing that wouldn't be cleared up by tea later. She appeared the material for a friend, separate from the crew, someone not phased by the hierarchy of ship leadership. He didn't have many friends. Well, besides Miss Gloria. He really needed to find them soon. But first, to take care of this order for the good of the Imperium. Supposedly, the MinoInn would be in this building, though by all accounts, he should be away from the city. He was told there was a weapon involved.

There also might be dancing.

Wazzock didn't understand what that part had to do with the war. He just knew he was forbidden to dance within Harbour jurisdiction, except for special holidays, and even then he needed to have a permit from the Fogeys.

He opened the door. Nothing happened, except for a bell above the door. Wazzock stepped out, looked up and down the building to see if this caused any notable stir. When he returned, a series of knives had stuck up from the bottom of the door-frame. He removed his hat and carefully stepped over the knives. He noted a sign on the door that said "NO SOLICITORS".

The rat captain now remembered the odd stories about this place, and of the ever-interesting list of creatures killed around the building posted at the Bilge (next to the slightly more interesting death notice list about the MinoWar building).

What was he looking for exactly? A ballroom, perhaps? The building was obviously abandoned, all semblance of order lost with ripped papers and unrolled scrolls thrown across the floor as if something had exploded. As he passed the kitchen -- cooked to well done – he noted that explosions may well have been the normal state of affairs in the Ministry of Innovations. He sniffed the air, only to have it scrape across his nostrils and carry on down his throat, causing him to clutch his snout with both paws.

He noted movement down the hall, a tapestry swaying. Wazzock removed his sword (another item he was glad he retained). He rarely took the thing out from its sheath, actually. He mostly had it so he could tap on the helm when in thought or rub at the shiny pommel stone for luck. Also beasts waving around sharp things, including himself, caused instinctual clutching of his tail. (When he heard creatures speak of his "lack of sharpness" he considered it a compliment.)

He cleared his throat. "I know where you are. Come forth, unless you wish me to become unsatisfactory to you." He would have said "violent" but he couldn't rightly imagine stabbing the unknown creature, so he figured a specific promise of violence wouldn't work well.

"Oh. I wouldn't want that," said a voice, notably in the direction behind Wazzock.

Wazzock spun around, sword still outstretched, so it caught a somewhat weaselish shaped set of armor with its blade, knocking it to the ground before the feet of a gray rat nibbling on a scone. The poleaxe the armor had held up also fell, which the unknown rat side-stepped, the blade sinking into the plush carpet. The rat looked Wazzock up and down, taking another bite of his snack. Crumbs projecting, he said, "Greetings there, who may you be?"

Wazzock got the distinct feeling of disinterest from the rat, or perhaps just a level of cool which no amount of action would ever phase. Still, he sounded as if he were genuinely trying to be friendly –- and genuinely failing at catching the right tone. Wazzock put his hat on his head, and then removed it with flourish. "I am Captain Wazzock J. Pike of the famous _Stormchaser_. And you are…"

The gray rat raised a brow, put the rest of the scone in his cheek, clicked each of his ten claws, and then spoke. "Commander Bait N. Switch V, official assistant of the Minister of Innovation, Colonel Iskarot Arbach." He stared at Wazzock's offered paw. "Do you know anything about wiring?"

"Not that I know of."

"Sorry, old family question. Traditionally we ask every creature we meet about it. Nice uniform."

"Oh, don't be tricked by my appearance. I am not a Southern Officer. I…"

"I know. Still, nice uniform." Bait N. Switch V kept chewing on the scone, though Wazzock suspected that there wasn't any scone left -- confirmed when the rat spit out some brownish stuff into a strategically placed pot. Wazzock remembered his pa chewing such stuff, though he never ate scones and chewed the stuff at the same time. Wazzock, for one of the few times of his life, decided this was not a topic he should pursue.

"So, is there a ballroom in this building?"

"Not that I know of. And I most definitely would know."

"Oh. Is the Minister of Innovation in?"

"The official answer is that all the staff was sent home and the MinoInn is in an undisclosed location. The unofficial answer is he should be back any time now to personally check on the situation, as a Missertoss Gull just revealed with a note."

"Missertross Gull?" Wazzock said, then his eyes widened, "Ah, now I can inform Miss Gloria and my crew of my current status. Is the gull still here?"

"Indeed. Upstairs in the MinoInn's office. Would you like me to show you there?"

"Yes, please."

Switch blinked, slowly. "I do not believe I've heard the word 'please' uttered from vermin maw since…a long while. Oberlameramina."

"Say again."

"Old family saying," Switch said, "Too long to explain. Still, it certainly proves you're the mad captain of the _Stormchaser_."

"Are you sure that's not Captain Whalebaker? He always seems angrier than I."

Switch briefly let a grin flash through his neutral aura. "Come upstairs, though watch where you step. The main traps have been activated due to the war."

"What kind of traps?"

"Don't worry. If you run into one, it won't matter. Usually."

"Oh, so they are like some of those 'live-bird' traps I hear advertised about?"

"Besides the 'live' part: exactly. And the noun is rarely 'bird.'"

Wazzock felt an odd chill run down his tail as they climbed a spiral staircase, down a hall lined with shelves of scrolls and books, and finally past a burned-out door into the MinoInn's office

Inside, set off by the early morning glow filtering through the windows, was a world of shiny items, knickknacks, powders and oddly colored liquids. Arrows and swords stuck out of one of the walls and a life-size representative of a weasel sat on a ratty chair, the straw stuffing spilling out of its stomach and a gash in its neck. A gull pecked at the dummy. Wazzock almost felt himself lured to take a closer look at the shiny items, but shook himself.

"Yes, I must reform and lay to rest any questions of my loyalty to the Imperium. I must wash my paws of any question of my following orders of General Lock of the Southern Army. I only am happening to follow his orders in order to then bring the answers to Captain Rusty of the Imperium. I must write a message immediately."

"Do you often speak to yourself?" Switch asked.

"Oh," Wazzock said, suddenly aware again of the rat next to him, "I usually have a Captain's Log where I write those sorts of notes. Makes everything make sense if I get them out of myself."

"Sounds downright sane compared to most vermin." Switch shrugged. "Another family legacy: do not scoff at crazy beasts. Comes in use working for the MinoInn."

"I'm not guilty."

"Never said you were. You said something about a letter."

Wazzock again found himself unhooked by this rat's weird calm. He couldn't think of how to respond, so he proceeded to find paper and something like a quill pen that actually wrote (the other quill-like things set themselves on fire while Switch calmly sprayed a white dust to extinguish the flames). Eventually, Wazzock managed to jot down a quick Missertross:

_Dear Miss Gloria,_

It shall please you to hear that I am fine, not a whisker out of place though my tail is a little kinked. How are you doing this charming morning? I am just messaging you to say that I am currently at the Ministry of Innovation. I met a nice rat named Switch who has shown me around. I am currently on a mission for General Lock about a ballroom, but no worries, I am doing this for the Imperium. He said something about a weapon here. Anyway, just thought you should know. Hope to see you soon,

Sincerely,

Wazzy

P.S. Send my best wishes to the crew. Mention grog. They'll like that. What do you think of Mister Soriss? Smashing fellow, isn't he. Did he make some roasted grasshoppers yet? 

He tied the message to the gull's leg and set the bird out and sighed. He turned back to Switch. He looked at the office again, the piles of papers, much like the downstairs, though slightly more organized. He thought back to Lock's odd orders.

He suddenly asked, "Do you know what Operation Ballroom is?"

"Yes. Brilliant weapon. Of which is not allowed to be seen by the eyes of vermin."

Wazzock's mind spun back to Lock's words. "Weapon. Are there plans?"

"Of course."

"On a scroll?"

"I just said they are not allowed to be seen by the eyes of vermin."

"Does a squirrel have to read them?"

"Good guess, but no. I am the plan. The MinoInn gave me the plan and all the details and I remember every one. It's a curse really. The MinoInn is rather a uptight bu-"

They suddenly heard shouts from below, and then the stomping of paws on the lower floor.

"I best check out what's going on. I'll be right back, Switch."

"Of course," Switch said, studying a stain on his coat.

Wazzock had only gotten halfway down the hall when a weasel figure rose from the spiral stairwell.

"Hello and welcome to the Ministry of Innovation, I…"

The weasel blinked. "Who are... _You!_ Ruston's gardener! What in sodding blazes..."

"Oh. Fine memory you have and charming use of words. You see…"

The weasel was squinting now, and then another flash of recognition passed over her face as she saw the uniform. "The Bilge…"

Wazzock stopped. He saw the risk now of putting up aliases. Giving his own name to General Lock had not been fantastic either, but giving multiple aliases, and then managing to run into the same beast multiple times in such a short period was not lucky. Then again, rats didn't usually have that distinguishing of features unless half their snout was gone. Wazzock noted he ought to hide the hat for future disguises.

He tipped said hat. "Hello. Captain Wazzock at your service. And you're Captain Steep, correct? Both captains, now isn't that a coincidence. Do you have a boat?"

"No, but I've got boots, you disrespectful, bucket-wielding, lunatic rodent."

"Ah, language, miss. Must be careful just in case ratlings be about."

A long pause. Then Steep unsheathed her sword. Wazzock carefully removed his. He breathed deeply, trying to remember all he had been taught about sword fighting. "I don't want to hurt you, miss. If we can calm down, I believe that just turning yourself in and…" The weasel lunged forward.

The swords clashed.

Wazzock felt Steep's hot breath on his face, blade on his neck.

He remembered that no beast had actually bothered to give him lessons on how to use his blade.

"It's okay, Captain!" a voice called from the floor below, catching the weasel's attention. "Private Devonshire has gotten the hooks out of my trousers and I'm fine, thank you for your concern..."

Wazzock, thanking the fact he wore heavy boots, kicked Steep in the right shin. In the ensuing reaction, he ran back to the office and slammed the door, placing the large latch in front of it.

"Well, that didn't go well." Swears and paws started pounding at the door.

"Is there another way out?" Wazzock said, re-sheathing his sword.

"There is, but without the proper method, they give passage to the Dark Forest."

"The windows?"

"You don't want to know."

"How can we get out then?"

"Only the MinoInn knows. He never told me. As I said, he's an uptight bug-"

"Wait, this is the MinoInn, a creature whose mind scampers upon the upper echelons of imagination. There must be something in here that can help us."

"Nothing that wouldn't remove a limb in the process."

"Are you certain there is no secret passage way?" Wazzock yanked some books from a shelf, then frowned at them, then brightened. "Ooo, I love this story. It has a whale that chomps on fish n' ships. My mum used to…" He paused to listen to Steep's threats. "You must admit that the weasel lass has ingenuity when it comes to threats." He noted something in the corner: a hat. He took it, briefly considered putting it on, and then noticed the odd stick thing it had been hanging on.

"What is this, Switch?"

"Oh, that lever…"

Wazzock pulled the lever with a reverberating clank.

"Why did you pull that?" Switch said, with slightly more enthusiasm.

"You said it was a lever," Wazzock countered.

"Yes, a lever. That's barely a statement and not even close to being a suggestion."

"I'm a master of pulling levers, or so my pa said. There aren't many around Bully."

Switch sighed. "To be candid, I don't believe MinoInn Arbach would do much different in this situation. That lever is to be used in extreme circumstances when he is surrounded and has no means of escape, and wants to take all of his idea with him."

"So what does it do exactly?"

"It releases previously hidden trips wires around the manor. And considering there is a fair amount of beasts tromping around the house, it will one be a matter of time until eragalaga."

"Come again?"

"Hard to explain outside of the family dialect. Let's just say it causes the building to become slightly unstable."

A rumble ran through the equipment, the floor, the walls.

"Ah, someone tripped a wire," Switch stated.

"Oh, that's not good," Wazzock stated back, as the nice lighting fixture hanging from the ceiling crashed to the ground. "So you're saying, the building is collapsing."

"You state the obvious often, don't you?"

Wazzock shrugged and then scarpered to the door, lifting the latch and opening the door. Steep was yelling at a marten now, who was sprawled across the floor, near a suspect-looking piece of rope taunt across the hallway.

Wazzock cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Miss Steep, but I believe we must delay our current conflict until we find a more suitable environment in which to settle our differences."

The wall directly across from the office door crackled, and then disappeared in a shower of debris, the floor now leaning towards the dropoff at a disconcerting angle. Steep looked at the absent wall, Wazzock, and then the cracking ceiling. "Tactical pull back, everybeast!"

Wazzock now noticed the gang of woodland creatures frozen further down the hall. Cute, Wazzock let himself think, before pulling Switch along after the retreating Steep, wondering how long the building would remain standing.

The answer: just about when they all made it onto the spiral staircase.

Then all went dark.


	38. I Don't Remember, You Looking Any Better

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 37. I Don't Remember, You Looking Any Better  
**

_by Seth  
_

Watching a building collapse from a comfortable distance away is always a fun thing to do. Being inside the collapsing building is an entirely different feeling altogether.

It wasn't even as if it was his fault. Steep, Darcy, and Tazma had all trotted happily down the hallway in front of him and then, trip! Bang! And he was flat on his face; one of the walls began cracking, as an ominous rumbling noise echoed through the chamber. He saw the gardener/captain/con-rat/whatever-the-creature-was come rushing down the stairs, dragging another beast behind him.

"Find cover!" Steep shouted. "Everyone move!"

Seth moved. But it was rather difficult to run with the floor falling out from beneath him. So, eventually, he simply found a convenient looking corner, curled up, and waited for everything to stop.

_ Dear Sadie,_

I have been rescued by my valiant comrades and returned to my regiment. I was greeted with honor and promoted to Lieutenant. However, due to some vicious lies by a scheming soldier who was jealous of my promotion, I was demoted and forced to return to my former rank.

It did stop… eventually. And as the rumbling of the final falling bricks died away, Seth chanced opening his eyes.

He closed them again, whimpering.

For a moment, there was silence, aside from the kit-like cries he was making. Then from somewhere in the darkness came:

"Who's making that racket? Devonshire?"

Seth sniffed. "It's dark, Captain," he muttered. "I don't like the dark."

"And I don't like Pip, but I don't bawl like a kit about him. Arghh... If I hear another squeak, I'm demoting you."

"The General already did. I got the memo this morning. It's not like you have to rub it in. Ye fates, it's dark… does anyone have a light?"

"I'll demote you again," Steep threatened from the darkness. "After I re-promote you to Lieutenant, effective immediately. I _know_ you fobbed off privy duty on that one mole; I saw Tzama rinsing him down with a bucket. I can't find my matches..."

_However, it appears he was found out and I have been returned to my new status. Perhaps one day soon I shall even attain a rank that is fitting to my station._

"Captain Steep!" Major Darcy shouted. "I demand you get me out of my predicament, at once!"

"Does anyone have a light!" Seth yelped as he sat up and hit his head on something. "I don't like the dark!"

There was a scuffling noise to the right and someone squealed. "That was my tail! Thank you very much. Watch your step!"

"Light!"

"Will everybeast _please_ shut up!" Steep growled.

Seth whimpered and curled himself into a tight ball, holding his eyes shut tight.

"Malachite's pawsocks," Steep muttered. "Right. I'm going to start calling out names. If you don't respond, you'll be assumed dead. If you're trapped under something, report it after I call your name. Devonshire!"

"You already know I'm here!"

"Just making sure you haven't fainted in the past ten seconds. Try to make it over to me while I talk. Captain Wafflepock!"

"It appears I am here, Captain Steep. However, I think my coat may be caught between-"

"Bloody... was hoping you wouldn't reply. Major Darcy!"

"Of course I'm here! Now get this table off of me!"

"I'll get right on it, Major. Lieutenant Llu!"

"Here."

"You're responsible for accounting for the rest of the regiment, and do it quietly. Devonshire, where are you? Are you stuck?"

Seth uncurled enough to sniff around himself and judge if anything was pinning him down.

"No." He said, and re-curled.

"Captain!" Shouted Darcy.

"Yes?"  
"Yes?"

"Captain _Steep_." Darcy corrected himself.

"Yes, sir?"

"If you don't get this table off me at once, I'll report you personally to the General for remission of duty."

"Sorry, sir," Steep said. "I'm afraid I can't find you until I get this file cabinet off _me_. You'll have to wait. There's all these drawers. Did you manage to get the file from the desk before all this?"

"That's classified information, Captain."

"Ahh. That means 'yes', then. Good. Devonshire, _come here_."

Seth shook his head and curled up tighter. "Don't wanna."

"That was not a request, Lieutenant!"

With a weak moan, Seth slowly straightened and strained his eyes, trying to see through the dark. He sniffed and began to crawl forward on his knees and elbows when something tugged his tail sharply.

"Ow!"

"What? Oh, never mind, I've got it off."

Seth tried moving forward again and felt his tail again tugged.

"Um." He said. "It appears I'm stuck, Captain."

"Bloody fine time to find out! You're not injured, are you? Can you get out?"

"Um…" Seth twisted around and, finding his tail, traced it back to a very large, heavy, something. He pushed on it. It didn't budge.

"No."

There was muttering and the sound of sniffing. Seth sneezed as whiskers brushed his nose.

"Is this really the time for this?" He asked.

A paw reached out of the darkness and found his ear and then brushed down the side of his face. Another paw found the other side of his head.

"That you, Devonshire?" Steep's voice asked, inches from him.

"Yes, Captain."

"Good." She slapped him. "Now hold still."

Seth jerked back and howled. "What was that for?"

"General insubordination, but secretly to make me feel better. Now get down, er… what part of you is stuck?"

"Steep, if you please!"

"My soldiers come first, Major! It's just a table; deal with it. What part is stuck, Devonshire?"

"My tail."

For a moment there was silence. Then:

"Really, Devonshire? _Really_?"

"I didn't plan it this way, Captain."

"I suppose we could cut it off…"

Seth yelped and jerked away, hitting his head again. "Why won't someone light something?" he whined.

The marten heard a sigh and then Priscilla was pushing him down. "Hold still." She said gently. "Lets see if we can get you unstuck."

"Um.. Captain…." Seth's voice was cut off abruptly, as some part of Priscilla got shoved in his mouth as she began to clamber over him.

"Shut up," she hissed. "And if you _ever_ brag about this I'll have your teeth for a necklace."

Seth grunted as she squirmed into the cramped space and flattened herself against his back. Then, she found his tail.

"Easy with the goods!" He yelped as she started tugging. "You'll break it!"

"Wouldn't that be a pity." Steep growled.

Something brushed past Seth's face and he reached out and grabbed it. It was long, and soft, and fuzzy.

"Devonshire." Steep said coldly. "Let go of my tail."

"I don't see why I should." Seth growled back. "You started it."

A moment more of silence, then Seth screamed as his tail was pulled free.

"There." Said Steep. "Now come with me. We need to find Darcy and get him out, and get Bucket-Rat-Captain unstuck as well, so I can stick him properly. With my sabre."

Seth clutched at his tail as the weasel heaved herself off of him.

"You took fur off!" He squealed. "I can _feel_ the bald spots! That could scar!"

"What are you complaining about?" Steep said. "Females flip for a good war wound."

Bumping into each other in the dark, they somehow managed to find Darcy, who was indeed trapped beneath a table.

Steep tried moving it.

"Stop, stopstopstopstop!" Darcy howled. "Never mind, just find us a way out of here."

"You think that's bad?" Seth growled. "She just pulled all the fur off my tail."

"Will do, Major." Steep said. "It'll take us ages to dig, but maybe I can find a small hole to weasel through..."

_I regret to inform you that in the first assault, most of my original regiment was lost. I am now serving with the rabble of the forest. The captain and I being the only sophisticated beasts among them. Woodlanders are so tedious to be around. So… Good. It makes me ill._

"What about a mole?" Seth asked. "We had a few of them, I thought. Maybe they could dig?"

"Devonshire?"

"Yes Captain?"

"I wish you'd stop being a pansy-waisted, selfish b-u-g-g-e-r and use your brain more often, because that's actually a good idea. Lieutenant Llu!"

"Yes, Captain."

"Do we have any moles available?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Can they get us out of here?"

"One has already been able to escape, Captain, and he has been sent to find help to get the rest of us out. I think if you would listen for a moment, you might be able to hear the rescue party above us now."

Seth felt irritation rise with his hackles. _Woodlanders. Did they always have to be so… perfect?_

They fell quiet though, and listened. Sure enough, there was sound above them: muffled shouts and the beginnings of rumblings as things were shifted. A sudden streak of light shot through the darkness, nearly blinding everyone.

"Light!" Seth gasped and fell to his knees as the dreaded darkness fell away.

"Are there beasts down there, then?" Somebeast called down.

"Aye, a few of us." Wazzock called out. "We wouldn't mind your assistance in extracting ourselves from our current predicament."

Seth looked around as more rubble was cleared away and light flooded in. Wazzock's coat tails were caught firmly between two fallen stones, and didn't look like they intended to come free no matter how hard he tugged. The mouse, Llu, had assembled most of the woodlanders in a group, waiting further instruction. Everyone was slightly dusty-looking from all the crumbling stonework. He tried not to look at the couple of blocks of stone that had things.. oozing out from beneath them. And then there was Major Darcy. Trapped spread eagle beneath a table, one paw flung out beyond it, still clutching the secret file. His head was free as well, but that appeared to be all. Seth reached for the file.

"Hey! You can't do that!" sputtered Darcy. "That's for my eyes only! Or, er, General Lock's eyes. And maybe General Scott. But definitely not yours!"

Steep looked down. "No wonder, it's a whole banquet table. We'll send some moles for you, sir!" She called. "Everybeast else, get out onto solid ground. Don't need any one else getting trapped moving that thing."

Seth grinned and began clambering towards the light. "Works for me." He said.

"Captain! I order you to remain here with me!"

Steep kicked some rubble below her, causing a racket of pebbles. "Couldn't catch that, sir!"

She smiled and followed Seth.

The marten crawled up a bank of rubble to the opening the rescuers had made. He eyed it.

"Is it big enough you suppose?" He asked.

Steep snorted. "You know the rules, if your head fits through, so will the rest of you."

Seth rolled his eyes and stuck his nose in. "I'm not a kit you know." He muttered.

"Coulda fooled me, Lieutenant."

Seth squeezed through the short tunnel and out into the cold outdoor air. A few beasts were working to clear away more rubble and reach the trapped creatures under the direction of one of Steep's moles. Something tugged at his tail.

"Would you move, Lieutenant, or should I just start gnawing the rest of your fur off?"

Seth hurriedly pulled his lower half out of the tunnel and scrambled upright. Light! Freedom! Air!

"Put your paws up and turn around, soldier."

The voice was cold, female. Seth sighed and put his paws in the air.

"Just once." He said as he eased himself around. "Just once I'd like t…."

He froze in mid speech as he found a sword blade on level with his throat. His eyes followed the glittering blade to a delicate paw, along a slim arm and into the face of a pine marten female. Her jaw dropped.

"Seth?"

"Um." Said Seth. "What happens if I say yes?"

"It _is_ you."

Seth eyed her. She was pretty enough, he decided. Looked a bit rough for his taste though. "Do I know you?" he asked. He looked at Steep as she crawled out of the hole.

"You should know me." She said. "I visited the Southern Empire with my father… you took it upon yourself to show me the sights… I… I never thought I'd see you again."

Seth shifted uncomfortably. "Um… could I put my paws down?" He asked. "They're starting to tingle. And um… I don't suppose you could tell me your name?"

Her face fell. "You don't remember me." She said flatly.

Seth licked his lips. "I don't mean to be rude." He said. "You're absolutely lovely, but I've met a great many females and I don't remember them all by name."

Something in her face hardened. "That's too bad." She said. "Because you _should_ remember mine."

Steep was out of the tunnel now, watching them. Why didn't she _do_ something? Seth wondered. Important papers were still trapped below and she was just _watching_ with a distant look on her face.

Seth took a step back as the female stepped forward, the sword still at his throat. "Look." He said. "I'm afraid you truly have me at a disadvantage here."

A cold smile touched her mouth. "Try Alissa Wright." She said softly.

An old memory rushed back, flooding Seth's mind. His jaw dropped.

"You! Here! In… What ghastly thing _are_ you wearing? I'm sorry.. I.."

"Oh, for the love of Mal." Steep stepped forward, knocked the sword out of the marten's paw and held it on her. "Lieutenant, would you care to explain the situation to me?"

Seth dropped his arms and scooted between Alissa and the sword Steep was holding on her.

"Um, Captain… It's rather long and complicated and she did help save us."

"Hurrah, she did a good deed, now she can get down and put her paws behind her head before she loses it."

"No, nonono!" Seth waved his paw in the air and then pushed Steep's blade away. "Um.. she's a friend. Sort of. Was a friend…" He looked back at the other marten. "You're still a friend right?"

"A 'friend'?" Steep growled. "Like you wanted Ruston to be your 'friend'? Oh, I know what you do with your friends, Devonshire. How the Emperor's court whispers!"

"Shut up." Snapped Seth. "No one said anything about me wanting to do anything with her."

"She's a female pine marten," Steep said blankly. "Do I need a better reason to suspect?"

"Um... She's a Wright, people will get very mad if we kill her!"

"Wright will get mad. And frankly, I'm mad at Wright. Judging from what I know of his family's past, no one will mind much if we cut their tree a little closer to the roots..."

Seth shifted from paw to paw. "Yes but.... I'd rather you didn't."

"Fine. But you can only beg for the lives of two Imperials, Lieutenant. Choose them wisely." She lowered the sword. "And, no, Ruston is not allowed to be your second pick."

"I get two? Really?"

"I'm just assuming there's some pine marten out here who is your long lost great uncle or a favorite niece or... I dread to think what else. Besides, begging doesn't mean your wish is automatically granted."

"But you said!"

"I like knowing who is dearest to your heart, so I can threaten them if you give me lip."

Seth sighed and looked back at Alissa. She stood with her arms crossed, chewing on her lower lip. Seth faintly remembered that as being one of her annoying habits.

"Um." He said. "So."

She looked at him and shrugged. "So?" She said. "Now that I know you're the enemy, I have to go make a report to my superior. As far as I'm concerned, I didn't kill you, so we're even Seth."

Seth swallowed. "I don't understand though…. You were the belle of the Imperium last I saw you… why are you here, fighting? Why aren't you safe somewhere…"

She started to laugh, but it quickly turned into a coughing fit. She hacked, and then spat blood into the snow. As she regained herself, she wiped her mouth with the arm of her uniform and grinned at him.

"Oh, the things you'll never know, Seth." She said. And then turning, she left.

"She's got you there," Steep said as Seth gazed after her. "Go oversee the moles and make sure the Major is okay, so we can return to Market Square. By the way, you don't have any other lady friends lying about in odd places, do you? It might be useful if we need your life spared by the enemy."

Seth looked down and then caught sight of his tail. The blood drained from his face.

"What have you _done_! You took all the fur off the end!"

Steep glanced back at the marten's once fluffy tail.

"I wouldn't worry too much." She said slapping his shoulder. "Like I said, females flip for war wounds. And if not, you can always cut it off."

There was a snort behind them. Major Darcy's head popped out of the hole, followed by a paw still holding tight to his precious file. "I wouldn't think that even a _blind_ female would flip for a wound like that. Steep, get your regiment together. We need to return to the General immediately."

Steep waved a paw at Llu who nodded and started shouting orders at the rest of the woodlanders. Seth watched as within minutes they were assembled in an orderly fashion and prepared to march.

"Disgusting." He muttered.

"Well, now, what've we here? Lord Devonshire, as I live and breathe! Never thought we'd meet so soon after ye ran off. Tsk. You and Mr. Pleasantrie are terrible rude t'a lady."

Seth and Steep whirled to find Gloria standing with her paws on her hips, flanked by a nervous looking rat with glasses and a very determined looking Alissa.

"How does _that_ settle the score?" Seth growled, as Steep leveled her sword at Gloria.

Alissa shrugged. "I simply said I wouldn't kill you. I never promised you that my captain would feel the same."

"Seventh regiment, retreat!" Major Darcy shouted. "Steep, that's an order!"

For a moment it looked like the stoat was going to try to stop them, but Darcy looked back at her and shook his head.

"Don't even think about it Captain." He said. "You're troops aren't with you, and we have you far outnumbered. Besides, I believe that some of your friends are waiting for you in that mess of the Ministry of Innovation. I suggest you find them before something falls on them and they're killed."

Seth hesitated as the rest of his comrades retreated. It certainly wouldn't _hurt_ to remain a prisoner of Lady Ruston until this bloody war was over, and now that he knew Alissa was there... Provided they worked out the minor details of their last meeting, and that one incident was-

"Devonshire!"

"Coming!" Yelped Seth. "Coming, coming, coming."

As they retreated, each step with growing speed, he glanced back at Alissa one last time. She was still watching him.

_I have had the opportunity to fall into the acquaintance of an old friend while I was here..._

I hope this war ends soon, Sadie.

Seth Devonshire Esq'


	39. Tea and a Total Lack of Sympathy

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 38. Tea and a Total Lack of Sympathy  
**

_by Gloria_

"Captain!" Sil wailed, almost slamming into Gloria as the stoat rounded a bend in the torch-lit corridor that led to Regi's office. "Captain!" the cat gasped again, grabbing hold of Gloria's hook and shaking it, though that might have been unintentional given the way the lass was twitching. "The explosion! And then – and then the roof! And the bugs, I mean-! Worms! My ears! Worms... in _my_ ears! Oh, you can't believe, ma'am. And then – and then the Lady Akili-" Sil broke off and froze when the lizard sauntered into view. "Oh."

"Oh," Gloria agreed, jerking her hook free of the clingy kitten. The stoat had half a mind to demote the Mistress of the Keys to Mistress of the Boot Lickers, but tamped down on her annoyance. From the dirt smearing the cat's jacket, the creatures wriggling in her fur, and the harried fluffing of her stripy tail, Sil had only just extricated herself from the collapse.

"Be a dear, Sil, and get some beasties t'patch up that little hole in the ceiling." She cast a glance back at the MinoMis. "Don't want any more unwelcome guests slithering down from above, eh?"

"M-ma'am!" the cat saluted and scurried off to comply. Akilina snorted as the Guardsbeast darted past, head low, mewling apologetically.

"Your minionz grow ever like you, Captain Ruzton," she hissed, brushing off a few stray roots from her own robes, "incompetent without the conztant guidanze of greater beazt."

"Says the scaly wretch who came tumbling down the rabbit's hole," Gloria shot back before she could catch herself.

"Defending your lezzerz now?" The lizard flicked her tongue out.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Ladyship. Only pointing out one of yer many annoying intrusions into my life and job."

"Oh, Gloria, I know we have a zpezial relationzhip," Akilina said, sliding forward with the grace of an empress.

_Adder with gangly bits attached,_ the stoat sneered silently.

"But, you _will_ remember your plaze when we are in company." The minister gestured toward the trussed up thugs behind her with a smile that indicated appetite rather than amiability. "Or who _knowz_ what might happen to your zon'z effectz in my offize."

"Why, ye!" Gloria's hackles rose and she bared her teeth, only just managing to restrain herself from taking her hook to the monitor's eyes. "Where d'ye get off-"

"Captain?"

"_What_?"

"Are you really going to ztrike a minizter of the Imperium you claim to be zo loyal to?"

A muscle near the captain's jaw twitched, but she didn't move otherwise. _Couldn't_ move.

"Very good." Akilina patted the stoat's head, then strolled past, her vulpine entourage in tow. "Now where iz your huzband'z offize? I need to look at a lezz common creature."

_I'm going t'kill her,_ Gloria informed herself.

_No, yer not,_ the more whipping-averse, title-losing-averse, hanging-averse side of her argued.

_Fair point._

--- --- ---

"So, let me get this straight," Regi began after Akilina's thirty minute explanation on how she had arrived, face down, in the Unsmudgable tunnels some forty-five minutes ago. Perched on chairs and leaning against entirely too-well-organized stacks of files around the Office of the Blademaster were Regi, Akilina, her lackies, Wright, Kips, Kriley, and Gloria. "You were tired of all that _dreadful_ decadence at the palace and decided to pop down to Bully to see if you might be able to press your services on my wife after she expressly refused them. Then, you thought that the best way to encounter Gloria and the Vulpinsulan forces would be in the Unsmudgable tunnels. So, for Fates only _know_ the reason, you decided to have these gentlebeasts..."

"Mork an' Mihndy," one of the foxes said.

"Actually, it's Mihndy and Mork," the other interjected. "We switch off ev'ry other week an' it's me as..." He melted surprisingly well for a thug under the heated gaze of every beast in the room. "Gouted barnacles in a purse..."

"You decided to have Mork and Mihndy dig straight down into them," Regi concluded. "In the middle of an alley. In an enemy-controlled section of harbour. Instead of just waving your magical MinoMis stick and finding a proper entrance."

"It _would_ have been a proper entranze if not for that explozion," Akilina huffed.

"I can think of at least fifteen things wrong with yer story, Ladyship," Gloria said, rubbing her hook over her temple to soothe the tick that had begun to emerge whenever the leather jacket waiting to happen opened her mouth. "Shall I start with number one or jump straight t': Why the _'Gates_ are ye here? I already told ye by 'Tross that I won't be needing yer help."

"I'm not offering _you_ my help, Captain," the lizard retorted. "I'm offering my zervicez and my faction to a more reazonable creature – like Commizzioner Kipz."

"That does it, ye sorry excuse for a belt!" Gloria snarled. "I already said War and Niceties are handling the matt-"

"I welcome the azziztanze, Lady Akilina," Kips stated flatly.

Before Gloria could wring the monitor's neck – either one would be a welcome throat between her claws – a knock and a poorly-clothed Soriss announced the arrival of lunch.

"Ssorry to interrupt," the first mate mumbled, keeping his eyes trained on his cart of savories. "I brought food... and tea."

_A welcome distraction,_ the stoat thought, chewing on her lower lip and considering the promising sack of scales and drama.

"It's no trouble a'tal, Mr. Soriss," she said, switching her focus to her latest pet project. "Always happy for a bite, eh? Why don't ye serve the _Bosun_ of the _Stormchaser_ first?" Gloria asked, emphasizing Kriley's rank as she motioned to her right where he sat in a chair.

Kriley shifted in his chair and readjusted his spectacles with a slight frown.

"See now, Mr. Soriss," the captain continued when the rat held his awkward silence, "Lord Clover is here representing the interest of the crew, he deserve a bit of extra attention for his dedication... his loyalty." She winked at the monitor conspiratorially. "I'd have asked the second mate t'come, but Lord Clover's the prettiest of yer lot b'far, wouldn't ye agree?" She reached over and tousled the rat's headfur as much to watch him squirm as the lizard.

"I wasss thinking the meal would be sself-sservicce," Soriss' backbone emerged just long enough for him to shoot a venomous glare at Kriley, then Gloria.

_Found another button._ The captain smirked.

"Shut up an' serve the food an' drinks, lizzy," Wright put in his two gilders, pointing to his broken arm. "S'only fair after ye go'n ruin a perfectly good show in the makin'."

Gloria scowled at the marten. He held her gaze for a moment, then snorted and dropped his eyes. Nice to know the Wotfers were safely under her claw after the near-fiasco with Lord Devonshire's rescue.

As Soriss prepared a plate for his shipmate, having relinquished what little spine held him upright – if his quivering shoulders and sudden fascination with the floor were anything to go by – the Captain of the Guard turned her attention back to Kips and Akilina. The wrinkly wretches were bent close enough to lick each others' eyeballs.

"Kips, a moment of yer precious time?" Gloria demanded as the Commissioner's maw split into a smile and he flicked his blue tongue out in what must pass for a lizard version of a flirtation.

"Not juzt now, Captain Ruzton," he dismissed her.

Tightening her jaw, the stoat stalked across the cramped room, grabbed Kips' snout and jerked it so that he was forced to look at her. "A moment, Commissioner." His yellow eyes flashed with something that might have been anger, then the breath left her body as footpaws left the ground. A very brief flight later, Gloria landed in Kriley's lap – much to both their dismays.

With an undignified yelp, the rat bucked like an untrained riding dolphin, dislodging Gloria and pitching his chair backward at the same time.

_Thump! Thunk! Thud!_

"Uhngh..."

_Malingering Guard reject!_ Gloria seethed from the floor as she clutched her stomach and tried to breathe.

"Zorry, Captain," Kips said, nothing apologetic about his tone or face as he stood, walked over, then stretched out his paw to her. "I forget ztoatz travel farther when kicked."

"Tr...ersss!" she managed to hiss in fine imitation of the monitor.

"What?" he asked, blinking. The only other creature moving was Kriley, who had managed to make it to all fours and was now frantically searching about for something on the ground.

"Traitor," Gloria reiterated more intelligibly, gulping down tiny sips of air. "Yer... yer not s'posed... t'cont...ict. I'm in... arge!"

Kips withdrew his paw. "Captain Ruzton, I rezpect what you have done and are trying to do, but you are not the Mayor. I don't anzwer to you and plan to make deczionz that will benefit the Fogeyz... which you zeem incapable of doing zo far."

The captain stood, taking a deep breath and holding it until she was certain it wouldn't exit as a ragged gasp. Then she replied, "Well, Commissioner, _you_ seem incapable of providing a united front t'face our enemy! Yer a moron, and ye'll dig yer own grave with that one." She stabbed a claw in Akilina's direction. "The day the Minister of Misanthropy offers her _honest_ assistance, no strings attached, is the day I'll eat m'tail. Have a grand old time ruining our country!"

With that, she turned on her heel, ripped open the door, and stomped out.

_I just walked away from an important strategy meeting,_ the stoat realized two seconds too late. _Bother._

--- --- ---

Some five minutes later, as she was debating whether or not to swallow her pride and go back in, the door was flung open, Kriley shoved out, and it slammed in his face. "S-seriously? Can't we draw again?" he pleaded, then fell silent when he looked around and caught sight of her.

"I s'pose they sent ye t'fetch me?" she asked conversationally.

"Er... yes, actually," the bosun affirmed. "Want to just, ah, come back in, then?"

_Aye._

"No. Let 'em sweat a bit."

"Are you sure that's really the best idea given the situation, Milady?"

Gloria glowered at him, but relented after a moment. She wasn't in the mood for such an easy target. "I'll not be going in there t'sup with that traitor," she said. "Hmph! I'd think Kips'd know better than t'trust that scaled hussy."

"Her story _was_ a bit dodgy," Kriley agreed, taking a tentative step forward.

"A bit? I don't even know where t'begin!" the stoat growled. "She left Emperor Voss' side in a time of war – _abandoned_ her post. And then, she just so happens t'collapse the tunnels where we're hiding in the middle of enemy territory? Ye know, I bet she's working with those Southies. Aye! It makes sense."

"That's going a bit far, isn't-"

"She's been in on it from the start! She's the one who had the Fleet destroyed at Magh." The stoat shook her head and began pacing. "It's all coming t'gether now. The traitor! Ye put 'em in power. Ye try t'raise 'em right. Ye teach 'em about loyalty and honor and justice. Ye feed 'em. Ye clothe 'em. Ye put a roof over their heads and gilders in their pocket, and they turn on ye! They turn on ye for some foreign skirt and betray everything that ye believe in! They don't even stop t'think about everything that ye did for..."

Gloria cut herself short when she realized that something very wrong was happening. Kriley's two-tone form blurred and resolved as tears obscured her vision.

_What in Voss' name?_ the captain wondered, lifting her paw to her wet cheek. _I don't..._

"We're not talking about Lady Akilina, are we, Milady?"

The stoat's confusion at her sudden vulnerability shifted to embarrassment, then shifted to anger with the speed of a badger in bloodwrath.

"Get out of my sight, ye four-eyed gawker!" she snarled, grabbing her dagger from her belt and throwing it haphazardly at Kriley. The bosun dodged and scrambled for the office door while Gloria scrubbed furiously at her face.

Not a moment too soon, for less than half a minute later, Fermia entered the corridor and hurried up to the captain.

"Message, ma'am!" the ratmaid announced, ignoring the stoat's furious blinking and sniffling. "It's from Cap'n Pike!"

"What? Wazzy?"

--- --- ---

Before she had even finished the short note, Gloria was striding down the hall and shouldering Regi's office door open. "I just received notice from..."

She broke off, surveying the sea of silent creatures before her: Soriss was trying to disappear into a corner, Akilina and Kips were hunched together again, Wright had a teacup halfway to his muzzle, Mork and Mihndy each had a bowl of soup in paw, and Kriley was poking his snout into Regi's ear.

"Gloria," Regi began, standing up, "are you-"

She gave him That Look* and he snapped his jaw shut with an audible click before sitting down hard.

_Seems Lord Clover's a bit of a gossip._ She would have to do something about that later.

"As I was saying," the lady stoat continued, "Wazzy sent me a letter. He's at the Ministry of Innovation on a mission from General Lock."

"_What_?" seven voices demanded in unison.

"Never ye mind, my dears," Gloria assured them, "he's too much a fool t'turncoat... unlike some creatures. He's scouting for our side and I'm going t'go fetch him t'make sure he doesn't die b'fore he can tell me what he's learned. Hmph! Never thought a letter from Wazzy would be good news."

"What, yer goin' alone, Ruston?" Wright raised an eyebrow, sipping his tea.

"Of course not!" the lady stoat cried. "Ye know me, Wright. All about the team spirit, I am. Lord Clover and a few choice beasties'll accomp'ney me. Regi, I trust ye'll deal with... this." She gestured to encompass all the beasts in the office, but both stoats knew what she was talking about.

"Don't get killed," was her husband's only advice.

"So romantic," Gloria scoffed. "Come along, then," she added, eyeing Kriley. "I've a wee bit of work for ye, m'Lord."

--- --- ---

Gloria wasn't surprised to see the Ministry of Innovation in ruins – it had collapsed at least once a year every year since she'd been alive... usually around the time that new interns entered the building. She wasn't surprised to see creatures dressed in Southern green crawling over the rubble. And even seeing Lord Devonshire and Prissy Steep didn't faze her – although it did encourage her to make the stupid mistake of stepping out of hiding when Alissa fetched her. What _did_ boggle the mind was the fact that the rat who had apparently taken charge of the foreigners had run away when he was in a clearly advantageous position. She'd have shot _herself_ for the love of the Emperor!

In lieu of being dead, the stoat told Alissa to stand watch and whistled. Twenty-odd** beasts, some Guard, the rest members of the _Stormchaser_ hurried out from the nearby buildings and swarmed over the site of the former Ministry of Innovation.

"Find Wazzock," the Captain of the Guard ordered. "If he's not dead, bring him t'me. If he's dead, kill him, cut off his left ear, and bring it t'me."

"Why just the left ear, ma'am?" a stoat with blue eyes named Chicory Sleet inquired.

"He listens better from the left," Gloria explained with a shrug. "I want him t'understand just how much a moron he is if he's gone and dropped a building on his head without taking proper precautions. Now-"

"I say!" came a faint yell. "Anybeast up there to lend a paw to a couple of chaps who may or may not be working for the Southern Empire and/or the Vulpine Imperium depending on the colors you're wearing?"

"I think he might be alive, Cap'n," Chicory intoned.

"Cap'n Zock!" hollered one of the crewbeasts, scuttling to the hole where Wazzock's voice had arisen. "Don't yew worry nothin', Cap'n! We'll get yew out, then Cap'n Ruston said we could have all the grog we could find in the Smudgie HQ!"

"What grog's that?" Kriley muttered, watching with Gloria as the grunts went to work, forming a makeshift rope from their belts and tunics and lowering this down to their long-lost, lackadaisical captain.

"All the grog in the Unsmudgeable HQ, of course. Need yer ears cleaned, Lord Clover?"

"No, I just didn't think the Smudgies kept grog down there." The rat twitched his whiskers in confusion. "Isn't wine more their style?"

"Aye."

"You lied to them?"

"Shame on ye, m'Lord! Besmirching a lady's good name. I never lied. That they don't know the secret ingredient t'every Smudgie dish ever made is their own bleeding fault." She bared her teeth at him in a gross imitation of a smile, gaze drifting to the scarf about his neck. "Of course, ye'll know all about keeping yer gob shut about secrets that don't need telling, Lord Clover."

He gulped, but before he could make a proper reply, a rousing chorus of 'Huzzah!' interrupted them.

"Yes, yes, glad to be back. Though, I'm sorry to say, my hat's feather didn't quite make the journey. Still, good to see you chaps, whiskers and tails still switching. Except for you, Tippy, quite sorry for the losses. How have you all been going without me?" Wazzock's cheery accent carried over to the pair. "I don't suppose one of you could help my new friend, though? Name of Switch – brilliant chap – seems to be a bit hard pressed to get out of there, you see. Think he knocked his head in the collapse."

Gloria sighed, then mumble, "Best get this over with."

Kriley found his voice. "Are you... not on good terms with Captain Wazzock?"

"No," the stoat stated flat-out. It wouldn't serve any purpose to lie to the bosun.

"Oh, I thought you said you'd known him for a while, so I just assumed..."

"Never assume, Lord Clover, it makes a-"

"Rusty!" Wazzock cried, cutting Gloria off as he darted over the rubble and wrapped his arms around her chest, burying his snout into her shoulder. "It's been ages since our last bout of tea. I've missed you!"

Kriley stared, bewilderment forcing the corners of his lips down.

"Bother," the stoat grumbled.

--- --- ---

* Not to be confused with The Look. Both have been trademarked by females everywhere, but for very different purposes. Side effects of The Look include bending to the sweet, innocent wiles of a daughter or mate. Side effects of That Look include bending over backward to avoid receiving another one.

** Really, it was an odd twenty. At least nine of them wore fitted pawsocks and the other eleven smelled like dirty tuna. Gloria had also begun to suspect that two of them were faking speech impediments to avoid talking to her.


	40. The Lesser of Two Weasels

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 39. The Lesser of Two Weasels  
**

_by Steep_

Having seen Major Darcy safely back to Lock's funeral home headquarters, Steep dismissed the rest of the regiment and trudged tiredly back to her room in the Wild-Cater-Wall Inn. Dust and dirt still clung to her fur as if her hide was the last longboat to leave the _Our Salvation_.

She liked her room. The bed had curtains around it, as did the window, and the double doors had a fancy knob that locked, although she hadn't found out about this ability until after it would have done some good. The rug was soft, the wallpaper was a cozy eggshell blue, and the moulding between wall and ceiling was nice and white, not the gringy green stuff that grew in the humidity of the Southern Empire.

It was a lot like home, except she hadn't broken all the furniture yet. Just most of it.

"Captain Zteep, good afternoon."

"Erk," she said, nodding to the lizardmaid who was just plumping the pillow. "H'lo."

The lizard curtsied. "Got you new sheetz, ma'am. Ma'am? What really happened to the rat?"

"Go tend to Lieutenant Devonshire's quarters," Steep snapped. "And you will remember to ask me permission before speaking again."

The weasel rubbed her nose as Erk hastily bowed out and shut the door with a gentle click.

Two strikes...

Lock had better be happy about what was in that file.

Steep melted to the rug with a sigh and splayed her limbs out, her footpaws sticking up in the air. There was simply too much to think about, no time to think about it in, and no way of organizing the docket in her mind. Pylaris oozed into Gloria oozed into Lock oozed into Darcy oozed into Lilith oozed into Bingo oozed out of her ears, judging by the warm, buzzing numbness. She welcomed the temporary lack of pain and closed her eyes.

What was she doing? A good job? She believed she was, but... was she really?

Orders couldn't be helped. There was nothing she could do to save all the regiment that died that morning on the Local Docks. But Peskers and Lilith? A little more care towards loyalty, and Peskers wouldn't have deserted. A little more attention to detail, and Lilith and the whole Bilge fiasco could have been averted.

She'd killed a civilian. Not her fault. But a _civilian_. She'd heard about them, years ago, when she'd first transferred to the Southern Empire's Embassy in Bully Harbour. Beasts who were not involved in defense of their country—what a load of plover guano! Even the woodlanders let their offspring shove siege ladders and run about with kitchen knives. And judging by the reports of pockets of resistance flitting about in the Trenches, the situation was the same here. One of Terion's squads being taken down by a pack of half-naked gutter kits? It was no different than shrews using a logboat full of infants as bait. Lock was wrong. Civilians didn't exist. Everybeast was a soldier in the end.

A soldier or a spy.

_He's just hiding, that's all. He'll find a way to get a message through. He was a spy, he had to go into lockdown, of course. The Banke's clock tower? No, there's too many soldiers swarming the place. The river? Maybe Lock will let me stay behind to defend our position in town. I could put together a task force, or sneak out once off duty..._

"Captain Zteep? Do I have permizzion?"

"Yes," Steep said, quickly getting up and opening the door. "What is it?"

"General Zcott invitez you to a dinner thiz evening. There iz a reztaurant, the Plume in the Bonnet–"

"I've heard of it."

"You are to bring two of your regiment az well."

_Devonshire. Pip, if he'll put up with the inevitable quips. Pipquips, heh._

"Is that all?"

Erk held out a pink box. There were doughroll crumbs on the lid.

"The General _orderz_ you to wear thiz."

Steep looked up into Erk's honest eyes, and, if lizards could blush, what she said next would have sent the poor maid away with a throbbing headache.

~*~*~*~*~

"Not the hat," Steep declared, eying herself in the looking-glass. "The rest is fine. But not the hat."

"Are you sure, Captain?" Llu said, hefting the thing in her paws. "The feather could hang down and cover your scar."

"Lieutenant, I refuse to wear more food on my head than will be on the table in front of me." Steep snatched the hat and threw it into the corner. The hollow, waxen fruits burst from their bouquet and rolled across the floor. Llu shrugged.

Steep turned slowly, head craning to view herself from the rear. The dress was slim, but perhaps just a touch too snug in the corners. The red silk was thin, too, and if she payed attention—as she was sure the garment was meant to cause others to—she could see her undergown clearly.

"Maybe I can put a coat over it and claim it's too cold," she muttered. "You've missed some dirt on my tail."

"Sorry, Captain," Llu said, hurrying with the fur brush. The mouse was not Steep's first choice, but Erk had other duties to attend to, and there were some things that demanded a female's touch. Besides, if Devonshire put his grubby paws on her again, she'd kick him so hard his past ladyfriends would most likely poof out of existence due to quantum, or whatever theory the MinoInn had invented this year.

And there was no way she was going to have Pip in here. He might have tried to compliment her. It would not have ended well at all.

"You look nice, Captain... for a weasel."

Blast it.

"If I want your opinion, Lieutenant, I will ask for it."

"Not my opinion, Captain. Fact."

Steep snatched the pawbrush out of the mouse's grasp. "You're done here, Lieutenant. Out."

When she was certain the pitter-patter receding down the hallway was genuine, Steep spun around and curtsied at the looking-glass, working a smile onto her muzzle.

"How do you do, General..."

~*~*~*~*~

The restaurant was a simple little building, one story, with an elegant and tasteful façade of black and gold paneling over white-washed bricks. Perhaps its cleanliness and splendor felt more homely due to the silence of the street, or the lack of a bouncer and waiting line. Steep had never managed to get reservations during her time in Bully Harbour before, and was quite interested to see what it was like inside. The thought of food, however, made her more than a little dubious. It was unlikely the Plume in the Bonnet's chefs were still puttering about in the kitchen. It was probably General Scott's personal staff doing the cooking.

Inside was warmed by the kitchens, and more than a few Southern officers were sitting around the comfortable foyer, smoking cigars. Steep took one from the box on the maitre d's podium, but did not look for a way to light it. Relaxing though the stuff was, it tended to give her more grief than usual.

She sat down and did a double-take at the lizard beside her.

"Captain Maxwell," she said, smiling nastily, "so good of you to join us at last."

"Again," the lizard sighed, "I did not _plan_ on concuzzing myzelf before the initial attackz."

"Of course not," Steep nodded. "Nobeast _wants_ to happen to slip in the rain, get a tiny bruise on their noggin, and spend the next three days sitting comfortably in the infirmary while someone else's regiment gets blown to pieces doing your job." She patted his arm. "I understand completely."

"I waz looking for my pet tarantula," he seethed. "Zomebeazt thought it funny to leave hiz cage open while I waz on watch duty. That iz a nize drezz."

Steep stared blankly at the wall opposite. Most of the officers had put their coats on the rack by the door, but she found herself hugging her own more tightly around herself. She felt naked enough without her beret, nevermind if she had to take the coat off in Scott's presence. The way he looked at her like she was a creme-filled pastry made her want to throw up.

On instinct, she looked at the floor, half expecting something to scuttle across her boots. The gold-and-red argyle rug had muddy lines deeply engraved in it, evidence that General Scott had already been through with his chair.

"Did you ever find it?" she asked.

"No."

"That's, ah... that's a shame..."

"Why? What do you know about it?"

"N—nothing! I don't even know what a tyrantular is."

"Tarantula. It'z a zort of zpider. Completely harmlezz, of courze, onze you de-fang it, and very companionable." He frowned, eyes slitting. "Nobeazt haz been the leazt bit of help. Blazted infirmary keeper juzt zcreamed and ran out of the room when I told her the darling thing went mizzing."

"Can't... say I've seen it," Steep murmured, concentrating fiercely on the cigar in her lace-gloved paws. "Honestly... can't say... I have!"

"Oh, well. I'm zure he'll turn up in zomebeazt'z luggage eventually..."

"Sooner than later, I expect."

"Captain Steep! You look... nice!"

Steep raised her eyes towards the doorway.

"Pip," she said, paws clenching. "So glad you could make it."

"I'll say," another officer piped up. "Couldn't imagine dinner without the main course."

"Oi, Pip, I'll take you lightly basted in white wine with garlic cloves, if you don't mind!"

"Getting this down, waiter? Sorry, sorry, I meant 'dinner'."

"Haw-haw," Pip said, shuffling past them to perch on the bench next to Steep. He folded his legs but kept his head held high. This did not stop him from jiggling a bit.

"Pip, is that a cravat?"

"Isn't it nice?" the plover said, beaming as well as anything could with a beak. "It's actually a ribbon from one of the pres–" He caught her glare and the sudden silence of the officers, and changed pace: "Well, that is, just a little something I found lying around."

"You dressed up," Steep said, burying her head in her paws. "You actually dressed up. Argh. Is Devonshire coming?"

"Coming?" Pip said. "He left an hour ago."

At that moment the main doors to the inner sanctum opened up, and General Scott's own wildcat lackey, Major Gibbs, bowed to them all.

"Gentlebeasts, so good of you to come. The General is expecting you. Right this way, if you please."

They stood and shuffled after him. Steep's ears flattened at the harsh—yet somehow burbling—sound of General Scott's nasal laugh emanating from a private dining room in the rear. Her hackles raised as it was joined by Devonshire's wine-addled chortle.

"That's not a good sign," Pip gulped.

~*~*~*~*~

"A funny story," Steep repeated thoughtfully. "Hmmm, let me think."

Dinnerware clinked and tinkled all around them as the appetizers were taken from the table. Hardly a beast dared breathe; they had already been soundly chastised for murmuring loudly while Scott was trying to hear one of Steep's blank-eyed responses to his myriad questions. The General had forced them all to listen raptly as Steep scrambled for sincere anecdotes regarding her enjoyment of his presents thus far.

It was the 'thus far' that made her the most worried.

Steep cleared her throat and slid her wine glass around the tablecloth in vague patterns.

"Back in '82, my platoon was on a peacekeeping mission into Southsward. It was going along swimmingly, until some otters sprung out of the river we were marching beside, killed half of us, took the rest of us prisoner. I spent two weeks in a wooden cage with a broken ankle, and—and then six months being 'taught the ways of honest beasts' by being roped up in a blistering hot field wearing nothing but the sack my travel rations were kept in, digging rocks out with my bare paws so some grass-mun—mice could grow potatoes. Broke my other ankle when Captain Argyll's regiment finally came around and liberated us, and by then there was just me and four other beasts left from our original platoon of three-score."

An uncomfortable silence fluttered around the table. Devonshire's mouth hung open, for the first time apparently having nothing witty to add. Steep reached up and pushed his chin closed.

"I don't zee anything funny about that," Maxwell said, askance.

"Really?" Steep shrugged. "Guess you had to be there."

It was the delivery that did it. Steep's deadpan tone and honestly-surprised expression caused half the table to burst into laughter. Lock glowered as some of Scott's masticated food flew into his glass of juice.

Steep hid her smile behind her own glass of wine. She didn't have to hide it for long before it died again.

General Scott's greasy paw fell on her arm again, patting her with such good-natured excitement that he temporarily lost the ability to wheeze out her name.

"Pr—Priggle—Prin—Priscilla! Ahohoho! Come now, come now, you must have a proper funny story. Everybeast has a funny story! Isn't that right, eh, Lock?"

"Not necessarily," the fox replied.

"How about you, Darcy? Mmm, mmhmm, anything, mmhmm, funny?"

"I'm afraid not, General," the rat replied. He was still rather bruised and haggard from his experience in the Minister of Innovation's manor, and sat quietly nursing his wine off to Lock's side.

"Oh, come on now, don't be a little ninny," Scott bellowed, thumping the table. "What about the time you got smashed and ended up in Drua's tent? Back in '87? That was funny! By Malachite's whiskers, that was bloody hilarious!"

"_Sir_," the vixen's voice chided from further down the table.

Darcy was blushing fit to burst. "Well, um," he began, "there was the time, um, when I was Captain, and General Drua, um, ordered me to take my regiment and capture some woodlanders and see, there was this valley and..."

Flustered, the rat stopped and glared daggers across at Steep, who had stuffed a paw into her mouth to stop from laughing aloud.

"S—sorry," she gasped. "I'll be right back. Do g—go on."

"Are you alright, my darling?" Scott said worriedly. "Do you need my help with anything?"

"I'll be f—f—fine, sir!"

She slipped out of the room into the relative peacefulness of the restaurant's main dining hall.

"_What_?" she hissed, only just holding herself back from throttling the plover's neck right then and there. "Why in Mal's name were you nibbling my tail?"

"I didn't get a seat!" Pip hissed, narrowing his eyes at up at her. "That brute of a lizard took it! I know I'm _just a bird_, but I'm your right paw beast. Or would you prefer that incompetent, bootlicking, disgrace of an soldier Devonshire handle your more sensitive missions?" Pip paused and regarded the door for a moment. "Besides, that Captain Maxwell keeps giving me a look..."

"Captain Maxwell would sooner hug a grasshopper than bite it, Pip. I'm pretty sure he'd be the least of your worries."

"That would be more comforting if I were a grasshopper, Captain."

The door opened again, hushing the vile retort that rose in Steep's throat. It was only Devonshire, however.

"Corny sent me," the pine marten said, fluffing his cravat with a grin. "He wants to make sure you're all right and that you haven't begun doing something _female_, like having kits."

Steep sat down in the nearest chair and swallowed.

"Don't even joke about that right now, Devonshire."

"What? You're not—no! You're not really?"

"Of course not! Just the—the thought of... General Scott... greasy... spherical... Have you seen his tail? Because I can bet you a thousand florins he hasn't in the past twenty years!"

"You just need to get to know him better," Devonshire said. "Corny's a great General. He sees the potential in beasts." He tugged at his lapels. "Told me I could stay as Lieutenant for as long as I like and to Hellgates with what General Lock has to say about it, and that you're not allowed to demote me either. I could be Captain in a week, he said. Get my own regiment and—grk!"

Steep grabbed his coat and pulled his nose in as close as she was willing to get it towards her bared teeth.

"That is enough, Devonshire. That is _enough_. You are going to go back in that room, and sit down, and keep your thrice-blasted maw shut except for shoveling food into it, and if anybeast asks you anything at all, you are to pretend to choke and _by the Fates_ you had better do such a good job at pretending that... that... oh, bugger it! From now on, Devonshire, this is a _mission_. You and I are on duty, understand? Don't speak. Nod."

"Ye–" His eyes swiveled to Steep's other fist and he nodded.

Just then the kitchen doors opened and dinner was rolled into the room behind them. Steep released Devonshire's coat and pretended to have been fixing his cravat. Pip squawked in horror at the rotund mass of brown meat that was the centerpiece of the cart. Devonshire licked his lips, his eyes following it. Steep waited until the door shut again.

"And if General Scott mentions my regiment, you are to tell him that you and I cannot work with Lieutenant Llu and her grass-munchers any longer, and that we require the proper amount of honest-to-goodness vermin soldiers. Understand?"

Nod.

"What about me, Captain?" Pip whispered. "Do you need me in there? I'm not sure I want to get a closer look at the entrée."

"You don't have to," Steep said, her shoulders sagging. "Devonshire, go eat. Tell the General I will be back in a minute. _Then_ you can stop talking."

"One question, Captain. What do I tell him if he asks why you're wearing boots with that dress?"

"It's very cold out, and I was hoping you were going to be sitting across from me. Just the first bit, if he asks."

The pine marten vanished. Steep looked down at Pip.

"I've got a mission for you," she said.

"What is it?"

"You know about Pylaris Ruston being General Lock's contact?"

Pip seemed to weigh his choices.

"Yes."

"We've lost contact with him. I want you to find where he is."

The plover cocked his head.

"Ah. A feather in your cap—you know, I never liked that phrase—for General Lock?"

"What d'you—? Yes. Yes, precisely! Get me back in good standing with him."

"Not to mention first grabs on any new info he might have."

Steep tapped her nose. "Exactly."

"I'll do my best, Captain!"

"But first," she said, pointing towards the Plume in the Bonnet's wine cellar, "three bottles of whatever makes your beak curl to be delivered to my room at the inn."

Pip sighed. "I'll do my best, Captain..."

~*~*~*~*~

For most of the dinner, Steep was content to let Lock, Drua and Scott talk about tactics—the former two seeming to have more wisdom about it, but the latter regaling them with stories of his heroic and entirely dubious (yet startlingly true) exploits. She and the rest of the Captains were satisfied to just sit back and listen, in case they could learn something from it all. Steep knew as much military history as anybeast at the table—if not more-so than some—but even she was surprised to learn how truly incompetent Scott became the more he talked. Most of his battles were won out of sheer luck, idiocy on the side of he woodlanders, or through selectively deaf underlings.

"I am," Scott finished, "simply the luckiest, greatest weasel ever." He reached over and draped his arm around Steep's neck, or would have, if it was capable of bending more than a few inches. "As my fiancé, Priscilla, here, is proof of!"

Steep wasn't sure what it was. Either the initial shock of being seated next to General Scott had worn off, or the idea that this was all just another mission to see through was starting to ease her nerves. She found herself smiling more often, edging away less and generally, well, _warming up_ to him. He was a big, stupid, foolish, disgusting glutton of a weasel, but there was just something likable beneath all that, like a candied chestnut hidden inside a cabbage. He had charisma. Steep idly wondered who he'd eaten to absorb it from.

She did not so much as twitch when the rubbery limb flopped at the back of her chair for purchase, but instead reached up and touched the back of his paw with a far-away look in her face that said 'I've just stepped in something, haven't I, and I'm going to scream when I find out what it is, won't I?'

"I am curious," Major Darcy said, "just how did you and _Priscilla_ meet?" The rat grinned over at Steep, and she knew this was his way of getting back at her for the table fiasco earlier.

"Oh, er," Scott said, rubbing his chins. "Two months ago, was it? Deck of my ship, mmmhmm, yes. Had a nice tea together."

"Zo that waz it? You juzt met for tea, and dezided juzt like that?"

"No, no," Steep said, wishing she could slap the lizard's expression off his face. "That was just when we first met."

"Quite so, quite so. The wedding will be after our victory over the Imperium, if not the very same day! Two victories in one, what say? Ahohoho!" He elbowed Steep, upsetting her shark filet all over Devonshire's salad bowl.

"Ahaha."

"It was arranged by my dear friend, General Roland Steep. A parting gift, of sorts." Somehow, Scott grew two more chins when he smiled like that. He shook his head sadly, creating miniature tsunamis that threatened to engulf his dress shirt. "Poor fellow, being stuck with protecting our Great and Glorious Empire..."

"Somebeast had to," Lock said. "And I can think of none finer and more suitable to the task of ensuring our Emperor's well-being."

"Except yourself," Drua snorted.

"Exept myself, exactly." Lock raised his glass in mock salute at her.

"Surely, though," Darcy continued, still staring at Steep, "surely a lady of standing such as yourself, Steep, would not have to settle for an arranged marriage? Was there truly no other suitor that fit your refined tastes?"

"There may have been," Steep said levelly. "But none with the credentials necessary for my goals."

"How do you mean?" Devonshire blurted. The pine marten flinched when she glanced at him, but Steep took it in stride. It was about time he knew. Everybeast else in the room did.

"My father, General Steep, made a deal with General Scott. For my paw in marriage, Scott would re-instate me into the army and allow me to accompany him to the Vulpine Imperium. These were the terms, and I accepted them. I then took the test for the rank of Captain and, of course, aced it."

"Re-instated?" Devonshire said.

Nobeast said anything for a little over a minute. At the twenty-second mark, the rattle of dishes quickly resumed in force, with the exception of Steep's knife and fork, which sat bolt upright in her paws and did not move. Scott eventually rang the bell for the third and main course to be served.

It was plover.

Steep stared as it was carved in front of her and great slabs of fine white meat distributed to everyone's plates. For a few brief seconds her heart raced—but no, it was no messenger tube on its leg, just an illusion made by Lock's napkin bib and Darcy's glass of wine.

Devonshire dug in a little more vehemently than a simple slice of meat really deserved, and on her other side, Scott's long-handled cutlery sliced and decided expertly as he grunted in excitement, a sort of _pre_-ecstasy of the wonders to come. Down the table, Captain Terion began to hiccup.

"Priscilla, darling, what is the matter?" Scott said, pointing. "You've barely touched your plover."

_This isn't_ my _plover_, she thought. "Oh," she said, and cut a piece off. She raised it to her nose and sniffed it. It was _good_.

_It would also be _wrong, Pip's voice echoed in her head.

She bit it, chewed it, swallowed it. She put her knife down. She emptied her wine glass in one go.

"Could I get a refill, please?" she called. More wine sloshed into the glass from over her shoulder.

"I don't think that would be considered a good idea, Captain Steep," Lock warned, with what could only be considered a meaningful glare. "We march on Amarone tommorow morning, and I don't want any headache-related delays."

"I know, sir." _Like those ever stopped me._

"I do not want anybeast too tipsy to get into bed safely tonight," he added, now glowering at Maxwell.

"Fie," Scott belched. "Fie! You're always such a worry-scab, Lock. Three rounds of wine, minimum! We're all soldiers, mmhmm, we can hold it in, eh? General Fusspots," he guffawed, once again spraying Lock with crumbs, "is not to be listened to! Drink up, my darling, and, mmm, do eat your meat. How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your meat?"

"Sir," Lock said, "with all due respect, my officers and soldiers have a long day ahead of them, and it will not be helped any if they are stumbling around with hangovers all morning."

"That's what aides are for, dear Lock!"

"Quite," said Lock, who's body language indicated he had much more to say to General Scott than just "quite." Pushing out his chair, the fox stood and put on his great-coat. Steep found herself being far too annoyed at this simple act—why should he get to bring his coat to the table, but she had to relinquish it before sitting down?

"I'm afraid I must take my leave now. I have much to attend to, and very little time. I hope you will all enjoy your intoxication, and I _trust_ I shall see you all _bright and early_ in the morning. Major Darcy, hurry up and chew."

"Yffmr," Darcy said, shoveling quicker.

"Are you going to eat that?" Devonshire said, pointing his fork at Steep's plate. She pushed it towards him.

"No." She clutched at her head and scooted her chair back from the table. "Go ahead... have it..."

In the immediate absence of General Lock and the ensuing jokes at his expense, nobeast noticed her bite her paw and hold her napkin up to her eyes.

~*~*~*~*~

"So," Scott said. It was an Entrance; Steep could hear the opening for her own "So..."

She kept her mouth shut and pushed Scott's chair down the road. Walking along at a respectable distance behind them were Major Gibbs and a pawful of Scott's personal guard.

They cruised in silence through Market Square, which was finally settling down into some semblance of an organized camp. Steep turned westward, down Market Road towards the charcoal heaps that once were the Local Docks. She paused respectfully to allow some of the guards to go on ahead and secure the road for them.

"Ah," Scott said, lifting a weary paw towards the sunset. "Do you like sunsets, Priscilla?"

"They're tolerable."

"Oh."

She felt she should contribute, somehow, to the cause.

"Do you like them, sir?"

"They're far too hazy," he said, leaning forward in what she assumed was an attempt to squint and sharpen the image. "I could do without them. Give me clear blue skies any day. All that red and purple is silly. And you can call me Corny," he added, gentler. "We're off duty. And engaged."

"I'd rather not, sir."

"Plee_ease_, Priss, darling?"

Steep blinked. She was expecting an order, or for him to shrug it off. But the wheedle in his tone was uncomfortable. She caved.

"Alright then, si—Corn...field."

"It will do," he said morosefully. "How was dinner? Was it good?"

"It was... yes, it was good. Thank you."

"I do not like this." He slapped the arm of his chair. "Where is Major Gibbs? He should be pushing. I want to see your face when I talk to you!"

"It's really okay, si—Cornfield, I can manage." It was really more like pulling at this stage, with the road sloping towards the shore. It was taking all her weight and strength not to release the handlebars and let Scott rocket down to the harbour on his own. "I'd rather it just be us right now."

"It was unfair of Lock to sit across from me," Scott continued. "I should have had the head of the table. I could barely see you beside me. Instead of his gaunt, sickly face. Mmm, mmmhmm... Won't you stop and rest a while, so I can get a good look at you?"

"I have a lot to tend to before tomorrow, General."

"Corny," he said quietly. "Just five minutes? Find a nice place to stop and we can talk a while longer. I don't like you pushing me. You shouldn't have to. You're much too rough and I'm afraid you'll let go."

"Shouldn't I get used to it?" Steep said dubiously. "I can slow down..."

"Just stop, please."

Steep rolled him to a stop against the porch of a tailor's shop, and went and sat on the steps.

"Look this way, darling Priscilla. Mmm."

She looked up at him. He was eating a holed doughroll. After three helpings of pudding, too. She glanced away, focusing on the dresses on display in the shop window.

"You're a very bea-u-ti-ful maid," Scott said, pronouncing the word as if he was scared of it coming out all at once and ganging up on her. "I hope you like the dress. Whatever happened to the hat?"

"The dress is nice. I don't believe it came with a hat."

"Hrmph. I shall have words with my aides." He turned restlessly and stared at the store. "Is there anything else you need?"

"New boots. My main pair melted. I don't know if my old ones will last the march to Amarone. And the, um, the nightgowns you sent... haven't come back from the washers. I could use new ones... yellow would be good," she added. "I like yellow... green is my favourite, but yellow is best for nightgowns."

"I shall see to it, my dear. Is that all? Anything can be yours. Anything... I want to make sure you're happy and set."

Steep bit her lip.

"Grog. I need grog, sir. Cornfield, sir. Imperium grog that hasn't been poisoned."

"As much as you need! Anything the army takes, you can have first pick. I will instruct General Lock of this. Er, why?"

Steep turned at last and looked into his watery, sunken eyes. "Do you know why I was put on probation, sir?"

"No. That was your father's business, not mine."

"My last year in Bully Harbour, I got ill."

"Poor thing..."

"I was not sick, sir. It was in my head. At first it was as if somebeast were squeezing my skull. And then it began to feel worse. Imagine... imagine a toothache. And an earache. And a hangover. All at once, inside your nose." She tapped the scab between her eyes. "Every day."

Scott stared. As she continued, he slowly put his doughroll down into a shadowy crevice between the chair cushion and himself.

"Every... bloody day, sir. I'm lucky if an hour will go by and I don't notice it. It never lets up. I just... sometimes don't pay attention to it anymore. And sometimes it gets worse. Five minutes, ten minutes, an hour, three hours, all night long. And nothing works. There is no herb or tea, sir. All I can do is hope that the grog will let me relax. It... doesn't stop... it from hurting. But it lets me relax so I can sleep."

"Priscilla..."

"I'm telling you this, sir, so you know what kind of mate I will be. I don't want sympathy... not anymore. And I am _not_ making it up! I am not a drunkard." Her firsts clenched and trembled, her eyes misting. "I am an _officer_! It's all I ever wanted to be, sir. I don't want to be the—the—the Emperor's neice. I don't want to be the great General Scott's wife! I want to be Captain Steep. I want to command a—a fine lot of soldiers. I want to protect... our Empire."

A few soldiers were creeping in from across the street; Scott waved them off. He pushed out of his chair and, after some manuevering around the railing, sat beside Steep on the steps. They creaked and moaned and one of them cracked under his weight. Bits of doughrolls fell out of his dress uniform as he settled into a comfortable position.

"Would you like to spend the night in my cabin tonight?"

Steep stiffened.

"General Lock will need me early tomorrow. I should be in Market Square."

"Of course... of course." Scott heaved a sigh. Another plank cracked. "Will you marry me, Priscilla, before the war is over? As soon as you get back from Amarone?" He put his paw on hers. "Maybe you do not even have to leave. You could stay in the town..."

The last rays of the sun vanished behind the ocean. Steep looked away, towards the velvet black-blue of night in the east.

"I'll think about it," she said.


	41. Was I the Hero, or

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 40. Was I the Hero or the Worst Kind of Coward?  
**

_by Pleasantrie_

It was dinner time in the Imperium.

To the officers of the Southern Army, that meant a feast of plover.

Unfortunately for Pip, a good half-dozen of the denizens of Bully Harbour had a similar idea. He entered a slow bank above the dark building that had been identified as the Ministry of Misanthropy on his map – if you could call the hurried napkin-scrawl the Captain had given him a map.

_That last one even got mud on my cravat._ Pip's annoyance was only sharpened by having to fly without a proper meal beforehand. Each wingbeat sent another tug to his stomach. _Just find whatever you can, Pip, and bugger back out._

On his next pass, an open window beckoned to the bird. Pip alighted on the sill and peered into the gloomy chamber.

Silence. Darkness. Nothing.

_That's definitely a good sign..._

He hopped in and made for the door to the hallway, his claws softly raking the carpeted floor with each step.

Steep's voice rang inside his head, _Remember, for a bunch of cutthroat bugg-- beasts, they're pretty unimaginative in their architecture. It's a block of rooms with a single hallway on each floor._

Pip thanked Ataxes* for the lack of light. It meant he could only see half a wingspan in front of him, but a single reflection from his feathers would be about as obvious as a brightly lit tavern sign.

_The stairs... stairs... there!_ An inky portal with a cool breeze drifting upwards. As Pip moved toward the center stairwell, he tried to keep his thoughts from the kinds of activities these halls were known for housing. _And the scents... fear and pain and death._

After a few minutes, Pip found himself at the top of the stairs, staring down the hall at a single door. Akilina's office.

_On the bright side, I could be stuck listening to Devonshire's jokes about--_ A soft snicker from behind broke his train of thought. Pip whirled and eyed the darkness of the stairwell.

It eyed him back.

Pip didn't mind it when darkness was metaphorical, but when four yellow orbs were visible from the landing below, focused on him, he found he wasn't as keen.

"... Hello?" He said.

"Tol' you t'keep yer gob shut, Sneazle."

"Ah jus' wanna 'ave a liddle fun with 'im."

A part of Pip's mind knew that from the size and color of the eyes, they were probably just a pair of rats. It knew that Akilina's office would have a window. It knew that Pip had more than enough guile to outwit a pair of guards, and that he could probably make it past them, down the stairs, if they took a few steps up.

The rest of Pip's brain, however, began to gibber like a weaselmaid strung out on bad wine.

"He ain't talkative, is he?"

"Naw. Rat get 'is tongue."

"Will soon."

Finally, the one part of Pip that was always a few steps ahead of the rest of him began to work. "So... chaps... out for a bit of a stroll, eh?"

"Ooo! It does talk!"

"Who knew dinner could talk back, eh?"

"Now, gentlebeasts..." Pip began to inch backwards as they climbed the stairs. He could have sworn he heard a worrying hiss of metal being made public.

"He talks like a poofter."

"Ooo, look! 'E's got a bow on! Somebeast sent us a present!"

Pip glanced down at his cravat and gave a small groan. "Now, I think there's been a misunderstanding..." Another few steps backward.

"Really? What was those orders the Minister gave us, Sneazle?"

"Think it was to gut anybeast gets inside the ministry."

"See!" Like a councilor for a losing cause, Pip clung to technicalities. "Any _beast_. I'm not a beast!"

The larger of the two paused and looked at his friend. "He has a point."

"But rations is low," Sneazle said.

"Good enough for me. Yer right bird, but our orders never said who _not_ to kill. Sorry. Jus' business, birdy."

Pip stood as straight as possible and called out, "Maybe you'd like to give me a hand then, Captain!"

The pair turned.

Pip gave a short squawk, spun on his heel, and took to the air, flying down the hall toward the Minister's office. Angry yells followed him.

_And a throwing knife!_ It embedded itself in the door jamb as Pip crossed the threshold to the office.

And that's when things started going wrong.

As soon as the first rat stepped over the threshold, Pip heard a soft click. Pip spread his wings wide and swooped toward the ceiling. With a grunt, he pushed off of the plaster, and came down in a dive right on a rat's... nothing.

He gave a startled screech as he collided with the ground in an awkward roll. _They should have been below me! How did that not work?_ Pip grumbled as he rose to his claws and gazed at the doorway.

There was a hole before the door. And judging from the moans coming from within, Pip could guess at the fresh contents of the shaft. He turned with a shudder and regarded the rest of the chamber. A few boxes of papers and a small settee-turned-bar were dwarfed by the desk that determined the fates of much of the Imperium.

Pip hopped over to the massive piece of furniture and began shuffling through it. In the dark, however, it all looked like an amateur artist's depiction of "Nighttime in Charcoal" by M. Mistof. The bird snorted in frustration and opened the drapes, allowing in just a trickle of starlight, the moon obscured by clouds, still.

Still, it was enough that the top letter made Pip catch his breath.

_That's the Captain's scrawl..._

He moved closer, and began to shuffle through the entire file, still spread across the desk. _This is it... Pylaris Ruston._

A dossier. Report on his death. Clippings from The Smelt. A letter to the Steep household?

It was tempting. Really, it was, but...

Pip went back to the letter in Steep's handwriting.

_Deer Y~,_

E6 to C7_, check. Your move? 3_

My dear P~, you are 20 yeers old now. I am heering rumers of war. Pleese get out of BH~ and come live with me heer. You will not be found wanting. It will be safe for you. My father has promised me to be suportiv of anybeest I choose.

Will you send me another portrit of you now? My last is so faded and crumpled from my holding it that it is a puzzle under my pillow. I am losing peeces left and ryte each morning and it feels, as like my hart is coming apart every tyme. As that drinking song goes "this pain in my hed escaped from my hart." I lost you once hole I cannot stand to lose you again bit by bit.

I have not slept this last week at all. When the house goes to sleep I get up and walk throo the halls barepaw and pretend, the crickets are your snoring beside me. Only I do not lay down but press against the marble pillars in the chill and pretend we had just climbed out of the river. Do you remember that winter you showed me, how to avoid the rocks and my kiss distracted you and we fell in? It is as cold as I can find anything to be in the S~. But what I rilly want is your heet again my love.

Even now as I ryte I can feel your paws trickling up and down my sides and now hugging my stomach. Your wet nose in my ears and your tongue mussing my whiskers. You take hold of my tail and pull me out of the chair. I turn around and leen my hed against your bare chest rubbing your fur with my cheek and I zheep. Now you are tugging my dress as we lay on the carpet rolling. I can taste the chocolate koko on your teeth. Why is this not reyality now?

I will not wait another month. You know better than I if the S~ is to attack. I will come along then if it is troo. I will send word of ware to meet and I beg of you to save your reply in such case. I would be Mortified if my father receved it insted and I do not want to miss a single word you have for me. Deliver the next one by your own paw. 3 I do not care anymore what dangers may come. I WILL see you again soon.

All my love,  
~R 

He gave another glance to the unopened letter from Pylaris to... the Captain?

_The Captain was in love with Gloria Ruston's son?_

He reached into another pile. The pile was full of letters from Priscilla. A good two dozen. He was holding a pile of letters that would end Priscilla Steep's career and likely her life.

Pip rifled through the periphery of the room until he found a satchel – it was hidden behind one of the legs of the settee. He placed the letters inside, as well as the entire file on Pylaris. But something was jammed at the bottom already.

There was scrabbling from the pit at the doorway.

Pip jumped out of his feathers. Thankfully, that one was only a metaphor. The bird reached into the satchel and fished out a small journal from beneath the papers. He flipped through it, giving the pages only cursory glances: a lot of rambling about some kind of weapon and a hefty heaping of paranoia -- natural for a Minister of the Imperium. He stuffed it back in, jammed in the dossier, and grabbed the satchel with a claw.

Grunting, the bird took to the air. The added weight slowed him and kept him near to the ground.

As he passed over the pitfall, he felt a sharp tug on the satchel. He gave a cry of surprise and looked over his shoulder.

The smaller of the two rats, Sneazle, was clinging to the bag, and the edge of the chasm, an evil grin on his face.

"Not done with you, birdy."

"Let go!" Pip strained against the guard, the muscles in his wings complaining as he tried to pull the satchel from its grip.

"Ye dirty little appetizer."

A reedy little bird-growl forced its way up Pip's throat. Still holding the satchel in his claw, he flapped down and began pecking at the rat's paw. "I'm. Not. A. Meal. You. Dirty--"

The rat gave a howl of pain as Pip's beak lashed open his flesh. He released the container.

Pip landed next to the hole and looked down at the single claw of the rat – the only thing keeping him from what looked to be a spike-filled fate.

"Argh... bird..."

Pip swung the bag once, hard.

He shuddered at the crunching sound that echoed up.

He made for the exit, his body trembling.

_Just gotta deliver this to the Captain._

Pip stopped in the hallway and was vigorously ill. As he leaned back against the wall, he let his mind wander from this sepulchre.

_We're not that different, Steep._

It wandered to a well-worn letter in the messenger-tube on his leg; a letter penned not so long ago in his own neat, copperplate script:

_Maeve,_

I'm starting to think you were right about this whole endeavor. The SLA have gotten more insistent and reckless -- they've operatives in the fighting force of the Army, now. Guess who's the captain I'm working under... Steep. I told you about that incident, remember? You almost had my head after you got a look at what happened to my leg.

And now you joke that it's my way of saying I'm always happy to see you -- that I'm dancing on the inside.

Father's Feathers... I want to be back home. When we've returned from this insanity, maybe I'll look around the Western Shores. There's not a lot there that the Empire would be interested in, and you're right. We should just go to ground. Who knows what'll happen to me next time there's an accident? I don't want to find out. I want to find a nice nook over by the cliffs and you can have that cedar-twig nest...

I know it'll be weeks before I can send this, either from the boat on our way back, after our defeat. Or after we've won the war. Still, I had to let you know, somehow. I'm almost through, here. Almost.

Still yours,  
Maplefeathers

~~~~~~~

* As furred beasts have the Dark Forest or Hellgates, birds have the Great Aerie. The crow messenger Ataxas guides the souls of those birds who balance the Great Feather of Ma'let. Those who fail to balance the scales of fate become hideous shades, never to fly again.


	42. Crazy 8s

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 41. Crazy 8s  
**

_by Soriss  
_

Soriss finished drying his knives, then dried his claws methodically on the same cloth. The lizard passed it across his snout, dabbing away the sweat. Dinner was over, thank the stars. Leaning over so far his gut almost tugged him onto the floor, Soriss reached under the island and found the two black beetles he'd tucked close to the embers of the fire.

With their crisped shells crackling pleasantly in his mouth, he wrapped his knives back in their seaweed sheaths. He felt droopy all over; all his energy had gone into the double workload of cooking _and_ serving. He'd forgotten how wearying being a waiter was.

But what Gloria wanted, Gloria got, especially when she was giving him icy glares across the room that chilled Soriss through. And especially when that Lady Akilina was watching his every movement with such obvious distaste. Soriss had set his jaw and stoically followed through on her spiteful biddings without revealing a glimmer of the hurt and rage in his eyes.

Now that he'd had some time to wind down cleaning dishes and get rid of some of the extra heat shimmering under his scales, Soriss found himself thinking long and hard about injustice. He'd never given the concept much thought before -- it didn't apply to _him_, only to impoverished shrews and albino ferrets ridiculed for their fur color and those insufferable birds (who only wanted to be equal, but who refused to conform with anything furred beasts did).

He changed his mind. Injustice could wait. It was rejection he wanted to talk to that snobby, hurtful Akilina about. Just what was so pathetic about him, anyway? He'd wanted to demand the same of Felazza, when she'd snobbed him for that arrogant monster Paltaz, but back then he'd lost his spine. Akilina was much closer, and he didn't love her, and the fight with Gloria had given him a boost of some strange energy.

It was time to get some answers. Duty be cursed.

He tore off the horrible tunic they'd made him wear and tied the Imperial flag around his neck, checking his reflection on the side of a pot. _I musst sstart walking regularly...or at leasst making mysself reach for my ssupper._

Gathering up his knives, he started for the door of the kitchen, only to hear the murmurs and pawsteps of a large crowd of creatures passing. He ducked back into the shadows, holding in his breath and his gut until he was certain they were gone.

Then he scuttled out into the tunnels, closing his eyes and trusting his nose to find fresh air. A few wrong turns later, he found himself scratching at an escape hole to make it big enough to pull his stomach through.

Crisp afternoon air filled his lungs, making him wheeze. He hated the cold. It was one reason he was very glad he'd never taken the citizenship test -- at least he didn't feel any extreme duty to a country he loathed so deeply.

He stood on tipclaws and surveyed the land around him. It all looked the same: slushy and dead. But he could just make out the shape of a road, and a small crowd of creatures trudging on it. One bore the distinct shape and walk of Lady Akilina. Soriss grinned mirthlessly and angled to cut them off some point up the road.

Quickly, however, the territory dipped into tiny hills and valleys, and the monitor found himself frequently on all fours, dragging himself to the high points. When he stumbled forward and fell to his knees on the road, there was no sign of the little party anywhere.

"_Dung_ beetlesss!"

Soriss scraped at the ground with his claws. They could have gone in any direction.

The sun was setting over his left shoulder. He wanted to curl up and cry, and have a good nap before even thinking about taking another step.

The warm biscuit peeked around a corner of his mind and waved invitingly.

Licking his lips, Soriss mentally pushed the biscuit aside. Time to think. His head hurt from the idea, but he forced himself to consider the options.

Akilina wasn't likely to put herself in danger, so heading back into Bully Harbour was highly unlikely.

Gloria had mentioned something about...Abalone? Anemone? Amarone! That was it.

So wherever that was...

Soriss looked left, looked right, looked forward. He made a decision and set off east.

----

By the time the stars made their debut, Soriss was seriously considering stabbing himself with his cleaver. His legs throbbed with the unusual stress of lugging him further than the distance across a kitchen. Every thought passing through his mind brought a stab of pain with it.

Squinting ahead, he made out the shape of a deformed building. He'd passed up a few others in favor of trekking onward, but this one was far enough along the path that he felt justified in taking a rest.

Soriss reached the front door and collapsed against the wall next to it, his body thumping hollowly through the whole structure.

The door eased open.

"H-hello?" something screeched right in his ear hole.

The monitor clapped his claws on either side of his head. "Aaaggghhh! Sstop sshouting!"

"Oh! Sorry about that." The voice didn't get any less screechy to his sensitive ears, and now the door slammed shut. Soriss heard a lock rasp into place.

He rolled over onto his stomach and groaned. No chance of getting inside. Glaring up at the window, he scraped some snow into a ball and hurled it with considerable effort at the pane.

It made a satisfying _thock_. Seconds later, a scrawny bird head appeared at the window. The beak opened in an uncertain smile. "You! You're Imperial. Go away."

Soriss huffed. "Imperial indeed. Asssumptionsss are a bad, bad idea, little bird."

"Flag," the bird said, and disappeared.

The monitor reached behind him to take a handful of his makeshift clothing and craned his head around. The Imperial skull glowered at him from its maroon backdrop. He sighed and let it fall over his shoulders again.

Regaining dignity was out of the question. "Come back. I'm cold."

"Unfortunate," came the muted reply. Pecking and scraping sounds ensued. "You're also the enemy."

Soriss plopped his chin into the mud. The last bird encounter he'd experienced was plucking a rather juicy plover to serve to the first Emperor. This one seemed the right coloring for a plover, but too small. A sparrow, perhaps?

"Ssparrow," he began.

"Plover!" was the indignant reply.

So he'd hit a sore spot. Maybe force would work. He had the size to back it up. "Ssparrow, let me in or I'll sskewer your plump carcasss over ssome coalsss and sserve you to a sshipful of grimy ssailorsss."

The bird chortled. His face appeared at the window again. "Ha! You're too fat to even get up on your own. Get lost." He shooed with his wing.

In one admittedly ungainly motion, Soriss sucked in his stomach, rolled over, and slammed his lowered shoulder against the door. He yelped as he rebounded and landed hard on his tail in the snow.

For the first time in years, he began to cry.

"Serpent tears," the bird said, but his shrug was a little too careless as he vanished once more.

Soriss kept crying. He buried his claws into his eyes and sobbed out everything. The tears landing in the snow around him crystallized and became perfect frozen balls of sadness.

He wanted to eat, and sit by a fire, and be hugged by his sister. And never have to think about war and bully-birds and stupid wrinkly lizard ministers ever again.

The door slowly creaked open, and the bird poked his head out.

"Erm...leave your knives there."

He left the door cracked.

----

The bird -- Cabin Bird First Class Pleasantrie, Soriss was quick to be told -- kept his distance, but kept bounding close to the fire to warm his wings. Rubbing his claws together, the monitor continued to piece the fire together, stick by stick.

Pleasantrie's stomach made a pathetic snarl, and he patted it with a wing. "Mmm... My kingdom for a good dragonfly. Well, Malachite's kingdom, I suppose."

Soriss's face lit up. "You like inssectsss too?" he said, looking up from poking at logs.

"I'm a _bird_," Pleasantrie said, with a condescending little sniff. "What's your excuse?"

"I'm a lizard."

"Right."

Pleasantrie hopped out of sight, into the shadows, and Soriss closed his eyes, letting the sleepy warmth overtake him. The bird's screech brought him out of his half-sleep moments later.

"So...what's an Imperial doing all the way out here? I mean, you're in occupied territory and all." The bird's eyes were very black.

"I told you, I'm not Imperial." Soriss inspected his claws and found, to his dismay, that they were cracked and chipped. It was _definitely_ time for a manicure. "I only work for them becausse they have foodsss. I went to culinary sschool here, but I'm from Ssinlale."

"Where's that?" Pleasantrie seemed only half-listening, his head cocked toward the floor.

"Near Ssouthssward. It'sss jusst a little island."

The plover looked up. "Is that where you picked up that odd lisp?"

Soriss grit his teeth. "I don't talk funny. I talk like every other lizard in my clan doesss."

"Sound like a snake," the bird said.

"It'sss -- "

Pleasantrie's whole body shot down, and when he tipped his head back, the firelight shone off the shell of the ant struggling in his beak.

Soriss's eyes widened. "That wasss amazing!"

Swallowing, the plover bobbed his head. "Thanks."

"Can you -- could you catch more like that? I could cook them, add a few sspicesss, make them more delicciousss..." Soriss pulled his poker stick out of the fire and inspected the end, grinning now. "Yesss! Thisss would work perfectly for a roassting sspit..."

"You cook?" Pleasantrie preened his chest feathers, flicking an ant leg into the fire.

"It'sss my professsion and my joy," the lizard said, with a bow.

The plover grunted. "You're not one of those bird-grillers, are you?"

"Oh, beetlesss, never." Soriss pulled a face. "Sstringy nassty thingsss, you are. I tried eggsss oncce. Thosse were bad enough."

Pleasantrie narrowed his eyes at the lizard, but kept his beak shut.

They sat in awkward silence for a while. Soriss sensed a sullen mood emanating from the bird, and tried to break it with a friendly question. "I asssume you're with the Ssouthern Army, then?"

A shrug.

"No?"

"I'm Captain Priscilla Steep's cabin bird. And friend," Pleasantrie added hastily. "But I don't serve the army. They're ruining our country. I can't settle down with my own -- " He paused, swallowed, went on. "I can't be with my own mate because of what they've done."

"You sseem to be taking their gold without too much guilt," Soriss said with a flare of irritation, indicating the tiny tube on the bird's leg, which jangled slightly when he moved.

Pleasantrie stared at Soriss for a long time. The monitor shifted uncomfortably, but finally, with a resigned sigh, the plover said, "I am...and using it to fund a resistance movement, to tell you the truth."

"Ressisstancce." Soriss shook his head. "Good luck playing politicsss with beasstsss with fur."

The plover leaned forward, the firelight giving his feathers a wicked glint that matched the one in his eyes. "Not politics. War. I buy weapons. I -- " He slapped his wing over his face. "I've said too much."

The monitor gave him a mild look. "Doesss it look like I'm going to ssay anything?"

"...Fair enough."

They lapsed into silence again.

"Sso what do you do?"

"Things," Pleasantrie said. "Recruit. You know. Beasts they'll never guess are there to undermine -- builders, maids, sweepers..."

"Ssweepersss?" Soriss asked. He smiled. "Like my friend Ssal."

The bird disappeared. Soriss strained his eyes against the shadows, cursed old age, and sat back down. This plover was worse than his mother Chrydess when it came to mood swings.

Then suddenly there were feathers brushing his shoulder, and when he looked sideways, he saw a peculiar sadness in Pleasantrie's eyes.

"I'm...sorry, Soriss," the bird said, and kept patting him gingerly.

Pleasantrie flitted over the firepit, and Soriss realized. And for the second time that day, he began to cry.


	43. A Rat Who Would Woo a Fair Maid

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 42. A Rat Who Would Woo a Fair Maid  
**

_by Kriley  
_

Kriley wandered out of the museum, the familiar drinking songs still banging against his eardrums.

He glared back in the direction of his comrades; seabeasts. He'd never liked seabeasts. If he had a say in it, he would have stayed as far away from them as possible. But he hadn't, and there he was. The rat knew there was no use brooding about it, but he was too busy brooding to pay that notion the proper attention.

He clenched his fist and snarled silently; even that Ruston, a beast _below_ him in station, treated him with such a thinly veiled condescension that it was practically transparent. Whenever he saw that stoat's smugly smiling face, he would have liked nothing more than to punch it.

But Kriley would never hit a lady, even if Gloria was just hanging on to the term by her claw-tips. And even if he would, he couldn't. It was awkward, to say the very least. He hated it.

It was most likely unsafe to be out, now, but if he would lucky, he might be able to spy on any Southern troops patrolling from behind one of the decorational pillars. Gingerly, the rat unwrapped the scarf from around his neck, laying it carefully on the only decently clean stone he could find. A comforting night breeze caressed the fur around his neck, and he traced the long slash scar over his collar bone in force of habit.

_What does she know about it?_ He squinted his eyes, as if searching for the answer through the rickety building in front of him. There was nothing special about the thing, aside from the fact that it was embarrassing and unsightly. He smiled to himself; Lady Ruston, he thought, must think I'm hiding some deep dark secret.

"Well now, what's the _Lord_ Clover doing here all by himself?"

This was one reason why he'd wished to refrain from ever bringing up his background.

The fur on the back of Kriley's neck bristled, but he didn't allow the surprise to show on his features as he turned. "Jibfang, I do wish you'd stop addressing me like this. All this skulking around in the shadows is getting old."

"That's a pretty scar you've got there," the weasel said with a smirk. "Did a little maid do that to yer?"

Kriley snarled. "You will _not._" He grabbed the weasel by the front of his shirt, a look of such intense hatred twisting his muzzle that Jibfang was shocked into silence. "Talk about that. Again."

The rat let go, leaving the second mate collecting his thoughts. Kriley went on, all anger disappeared as he crossing his paws behind his back in a business-like manner. "I doubt that's the reason you even came here, is it?"

"Of… course it ain't," Jibfang said once he'd found his voice. "There's still the matter of that little scaly brat."

Kriley rubbed at his temple. He knew they should have just crippled him quickly. As it was, _somebeast_ had gotten wind of the plans, and word spread like a fire through the sails of a death plot. The rat sniffed; death had never even been a proper part of it.

"We should let it rest," Kriley said after a moment's pause. "We've got more important matters to deal with than a stupid _cook._ Besides, we _are_ in a war. If we're lucky, a stray arrow will get him, and then our paws will be completely clean of the matter."

Jibfang paced, a stormy expression playing between his whiskers. "Yar, but think about that. Soriss ain't fit to be first mate on a bright 'n sunny day, much less when there's a war goin' on and beast's lives are in danger." He stopped to fix his gaze on Kriley. "Especially mine."

Kriley opened his mouth, and then closed it again. Jibfang was right, but he wasn't at all happy with it. "Mm," he eventually said after some tail-flipping. "At the very least, Miss Gloria Ruston seems to have her trust in me rather than him." He shrugged. "I doubt anybeast will be giving him life-or-death orders any time soon. We will leave the matter be until later."

"Huh," Jibfang snorted. "I thought you'd have more backbone 'n that. I'm sure every beast in the crew would be glad to be rid of that oaf."

"I'm quite sure they would be," Kriley said with a twitch of his whiskers. "But I don't care. Now, hop off like a good little weasel." He smirked at the flash of anger on Jibfang's face. "If you don't, I'll report you to the Captain."

He turned around and made as if to reach for his scarf. Two heartbeats later, he whirled, drawing his saber from its sheath in a diagonal across his chest, where it clashed against the weasel's cutlass. The rat smirked.

"Predictable," Kriley said. "That is why the plan will fail if we try now. Everybeast will be expecting it."

Jibfang muttered something poisonous under his breath, but stowed his weapon. Kriley did likewise.

"I forget what the punishment is for attempting to kill an officer," Kriley said, his tail swishing. "I do think it was something humorous but lingering, with either boiling oil, melted lead, or soap bubbles."

Jibfang scampered.

The rat replaced his scarf. Being a bosun was not quite as glamorous as first mate, but it was not without its perks.

A keening squawk brought the rat out of his thoughts. Peering upward, he scanned the skies for the gull. He found it after it was kind enough to flap right into his face.

After a fine fit of flailing and fallen feathers, Kriley was dusting himself off and muttering darkly as he surveyed the fallen bird. The Missertross gull had been flying low, most likely because of the arrow shaft jutting awkwardly from the base of one wing. The rat was about to remove the weapon, but stopped himself. He didn't know much about healing, but he had heard somewhere that removing an arrow without proper care lead to an even more painful death.

Kriley wouldn't have described himself as a sentimental creature, but he could not leave the poor creature to suffer. Nor could he leave the message neatly curled up in its tube unread…

Deciding to take care of the latter first, the rat removed the bit of parchment.

_General Lock,_

Imperial fleet sighted. Preparing for high seas engagement. We will try to hold them off, but they have repaired more thoroughly and quickly than anticipated.

Captain Jones.

Kriley's heart fluttered like moths wings against his ribcage.

_An Imperial fleet!_ He tucked the message away. If there was any way to regain favour with the Captain, this was it.

The rat very nearly skipped his way back to his crew, but the cries of the unfortunate gull made him stop mid-hop. He stared at the thing, gnawing on his lower lip. _Bother._

Pocketing the capsule, he scooped the creature up, grunting. With slightly less spring in his step, he made his way back to camp. He winced inwardly; he could already hear the others…

--

"That's where ye ran off to?" Gloria curled her lip. "Don't ye have better things t'do than make friends with birds, m'Lord?"

Wazzock scurried forward, his face lighting up. "Oh! Krill, you're just the rat I've been looking for." He nodded to the gull in Kriley's paws, tipping his hat. "And a lovely evening to you, madam. Any friend of Krill is a friend of mine."

Kriley's whiskers twitched. _How does he know it's female?_ He would have asked, but before the thought made the journey to his throat, Wazzock had continued.

"You see, dear Sunyl with her excellent look-outing skills, spotted from a troop of Southies headed right for the museum. The peculiar thing was that they were mostly ratmaids."

Kriley raised an eyebrow. "And…?"

"That's what I like about you, Krill, you've got a questioning mind." Wazzock nodded sagely. "Well, Rusty here had a splendid idea. We can't let them get too close, or they might start snooping around. Can't have that! So, instead, why not have a dashing young gentlerat to pop up and send them on their way?"

The bosun gulped. "Captain," he said, "y-you're not…"

"Of course! No beast would be more perfect than you!" The rat captain put a paw to his chin as Kriley vaguely pondered ritual suicide. "I would go myself," he added, "but there's nothing a fair maiden loves more than a shy beastie."

Kriley balked. "But, Captain, why not send Mister Mirkovic? I imagine he would do as well."

"Nonsense, Milord. Yer the prettiest one b'_far_." Gloria fairly crowed, eyes slit with savage pleasure.

Kriley shut his mouth with an audible click. He could at least deny _her_ an extra laugh at his expense.

Or try to.

"Very well." The bosun said, mustering what was left of his dignity. "I'll be on my way presently."

He then remembered that he was currently cradling a bird in his paws.

"Um, Captain? Would you…?"

Wazzock scooped up the gull. "Of course! You charm those ladies, and I'll woo this here birdy." The captain let out a small yelp as the bird pecked one of his ears. "My, I think it likes me!"

--

Kriley inhaled, peeking out from behind a pillar.

Five beasts, four of which were female. The last one was a male stoat. The rat let the breath out through his teeth.

_It's going to be okay. They won't bite. I hope._ Besides, if they found out who he was, it was more likely they'd just stab him.

Somehow, the thought didn't exactly put him any more at ease.

Adjusting the collar of his green uniform for approximately the thirtieth time, he stepped out from behind the pillar in front of the museum. One of the rats, a tall one with a particularly long tail, pointed to him, and the soldier standing beside her hefted a spear.

"Who are yew?"

"Hold on a bit!" Kriley called, holding his paws up. He trotted forward carefully, trying to remember to keep breathing. "I'm on your side."

The rat with the spear planted it in the ground, leaning against it. "What's yer name, four-eyes? Who's regiment are ye in?"

Kriley resisted the instinctual urge to snap at the maid; he ever so _hated_ being called that. "I'm… Godfrey Silver," he said. "And I got separated from my regiment, I'm afraid. I was, er, camping out in the museum when I heard you approach." His ears sagged a millimeter as the spear-toting rat fixed him with a doubtful expression.

"Godfrey? Ain't never heard o' no Godfrey," she snapped.

"Doesn't look like much of a fighter to me," another one of the rats mentioned.

"Oh," Kriley said, waving his paw in the air. "That's only because I'm a… er, a battle bard." The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

The Southern beasts stared at him. Kriley wondered if it would be better to stab himself in the throat right then and there to get it over with sooner.

"Another battle bard?" One of the rats put a paw to her cheek. "My, I didn't think General Lock'd ever hire another one after that one time…"

The spear-rat raised an eyewhisker. "Where's yer instrument, then?"

Kriley allowed his whiskers to droop, his tail curling forlornly about his footpaws. "Stolen. Now I'm nothing but a bard without an instrument."

"Dirty scoundrel!" The tall rat who had been first to spot him scurried forward and grasped Kriley's shoulder. He twitched. "Stealin' an honest bard's weapon. We'll get it back for ye! You said he was in the museum?"

Kriley shook his head very hard. "No, no! I mean, er, there's no use in going there. It's empty."

The rat knew that he had to act first. "But, fair maiden," he said, "there's no use in worrying about it now." He bowed. "May I ask your name, pretty one?"

She tittered into her paw. "Fair maiden? My. M'name's Grimefang." She smirked, and Kriley could see why.

"Ah! A l…lovely…name..?"

Several more titters met this remark, and Kriley wanted very much for the earth to swallow him up.

"We'll let you stay with us if you give us a little song, mister bard," one of the rats added, fluttering her eyelashes.

"A… song?"

"Aye!" Another one of the rats grabbed his arm in a vice grip. "I bet an apple to an acorn ye've got a luvverly singin' voice."

Grimefang grabbed his other arm, penning him in. "Yiss, indeed!"

Kriley stifled the whimper; why did they all have to grab so _hard?_

"Oh, but," the bosun searched desperately. "I've, um, a nasty sore throat, I'm afraid. Need vocal rest, you know? Wouldn't want to bust up the voice forever and—"

Whatever he was about to say turned into a yelp. One of the rats had poked him in the side, and his legs had buckled, sending him tumbling to the ground in a heap.

The females erupted in ragged fits of giggles. "Aw! Lookit him! He's all curled up!"

"By the claw, I ain't never seen nobeast this ticklish!"

"Coochie-coochie-coo!"

Kriley squirmed under the seeking paws of several of the rats. "Grk! No, please! I'm—ack!"

The stoat, who had been silent thus far, cleared his throat. "I don't mean to interrupt yore fun, ladies," he growled, "but we'd best get on with our patrol."

The rat with the spear sniffed, but nodded. "Awh, you allus gotta ruin our fun, bossyboots. But Godfrey's comin' wid us!" She hoisted Kriley up, and he very nearly crumpled back down again as he fumbled for his spectacles.

"No!" His voice squeaked a bit more than he'd like. "I mean, I've gotta look for my instrument… thatway," he said pointing in a vague direction.

Grimefang pouted. "Hmph! At least give us a goodbye—huh?"

She barely saw Kriley's tail as it disappeared behind a building. She scratched her head. "Bards."

--

Kriley stormed back into the Smudgie's HQ, scowling to beat the band.

If he ran into Gloria, he had more than few words to share with her. But what he really wanted was to curl up in wait and wait for his limbs to stop trembling.

Instead, Sunyl nearly ran into him. Kriley, at his wits end, flailed his paws in front of his face and only put them down again after Sunyl had insured him that it was only her.

"Sorry, sir! Just wanted to say that yer bird friend is recoverin'. Come with me!" With that, she dashed off. Kriley, curiosity prickling at his whiskers, followed the vixen.

Seated, the gull appeared to be sleeping, but opened beady eyes as Kriley and Sunyl approached. "Ah!" It croaked. "You beast who save me, eh?"

Kriley nodded, swelling with pride. Finally, he was about to get the thanks he so rightfully deserved. Perhaps the little gull would even stay, as a loyal companion?

The bird fluffed its pinions. "That good. I guess you not as stupid as you look." With that, the gull nestled its head back into its feathers and went back to sleep.

Kriley and Sunyl stared.

_Then again,_ Kriley thought, _I _do_ need another pillow…_

"Er," Kriley coughed into his paw. "Do you know where Captain Wazzock is?"

Sunyl pondered this, her large ears twitching toward each other. "Last I saw," she said, "he was talkin' wid Gloria."

Kriley thanked the vixen, and padded out into the hall, he didn't get far before he heard Gloria's harsh voice.

"A ballroom? What in th'blazes is that? Yer pal Switch got anythin' t'say about it?"

"Normally, he would…" Another voice, most definitely Wazzock. "But I'm afraid he's not quite himself at the moment. Got a hit on the noggin. The last I talked to him, poor chap asked me not to put too much sugar in his tea."

Kriley cleared his throat to announce his presence. Annoyance turned to interest in Gloria's face. "Ah, Lord Clover. Good t'see ye back in one piece."

The rat had to admire the Stoatorian Guard. She had a natural talent for making the most innocent phrases sound absolutely bloodthirsty. He nodded politely in turn.

"Sorry for interrupting," he said, "but I've got some important information." He produced the capsule. "That Missertross was carrying a message to one of the Southern Generals."

Wazzock beamed. "Well done you! So, what was the message?"

Kriley smiled.

"I'd be more than glad to tell you if you make me first mate."


	44. The Cure

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 43. The Cure  
**

_by Soriss  
_

Pleasantrie was shifting uncomfortably by the time Soriss dried his eyes and stood up, wobbling on his footclaws.

"I -- really need to get going," the plover said, hopping surreptitiously towards the door.

"Where -- wait," Soriss said. He straightened. "How did Ssal die?"

Pleasantrie gave an agitated little cough. "She fell. She and Captain Steep, well, they were fighting, and she... I couldn't get there in time. They were too close to the stairs..."

Soriss's eyes narrowed. So, it was that weasel's fault. Bloody wench would have walked away without blinking, too, he imagined. What if he followed the bird and killed the captain? It was a long shot, he knew, especially with only his cooking knives as weapons -- but if he succeeded, it would be a two-way victory: he'd avenge Sal's death, and Captain Wazzock would give him a medal for services rendered. Maybe. Or at the very least, slap him on the back and forget that he'd run off.

His inner hatchling curled up and shivered. The idea of sending his knives through flesh and then into _bone_... His inner adult slapped his inner hatchling and gave it a kick for good measure. _No time to be sso sspinelesss,_ he told himself.

He glanced up to see Pleasantrie's tailfeathers disappear around the door. "Hey!" Soriss yelped, skidding after the plover into the snow. He scooped up his knives and broke into a tottering run after the retreating bird. "Pleasse wait!"

Pleasantrie's shoulders heaved as he stopped and looked back, a world-weary expression in his eyes. "Look, can't you stay here? I can't bring you back. It's... It's enemy territory, right? They'll kill you as soon as look at you."

"Pleasse?" Soriss was panting hard as he caught up to Pleasantrie, and he clasped his claws together. "I'll catch you ssome dragonfliesss...I'll join your army!"

The plover shook his head. "It's not _my_ army. Besides, you wouldn't exactly fit in."

"Pleasse, Pleassantrie?"

"Er...call me Pip," the bird said, lifting a wing.

"Oh. Pip." The lizard tried out the word. It felt harsh and short, but nicknames usually indicated some sort of rapport between the user and the named. He tried to smile. "I'll find you weaponsss...be your camp cook..." Pip continued to shake his head. Soriss widened his eyes. "I'll be your friend!"

That made the plover tilt his whole body and clack his beak slightly. Then he shook his head. "You don't want to be my friend, Soriss. I'm sorry, I can't." He set off hopping, leaving little furrows in the snow.

Soriss sighed, his whole body drooping. He'd just have to follow the bird, but he had little hope of keeping up.

He squinted into the night. Up ahead, the little golden bird had slowed down. "Although, I suppose this satchel is getting heavy."

----

"Stay here," Pip told Soriss, when they reached the inn. He gave the monitor a cautionary frown. "And don't say anything."

He hopped into the shadows. Soriss shrugged and sat down, trying to catch his breath. His gut was burning, and he had half a mind to cut off his footclaws, they were hurting so badly. His ears caught the sound of Pip hissing, and he watched the bird fluttering around at an alcove window on the second story. "Pssst! Captain! I have some news for you."

The window opened, and a disgruntled-looking weasel poked her head out. She tugged a grog bottle out of her mouth and snapped back, "What'd you find? Did you see him?"

"Can you come down, ma'am? It's urgent."

In the alley, Soriss tightened his grip on his cleaver.

"Rrrgh. _Fine_."

The window slammed shut again, and Pip swooped back to where Soriss sat. "All right. Please don't say anything -- just let me do the talking. She's a bit...edgy when she wakes up."

"It'sss forgiven," Soriss said through his teeth.

A few minutes later, Steep, looking tousled and a bit haunted, burst out the door of the inn, pushing off the protests of the skinny stoat guarding the door. She took the stairs with no grace at all and flop-walked across the snow.

"Well, Pip?"

Soriss scrabbled to stand up as Pip eyed him warily. "I found some things at the MinoMis."

"Give them here -- oi!" Steep squinted at Soriss. "Who's that? Pip, why's the help been rolling in the gutters?"

The monitor let out a bellow and charged, his upraised cleaver glinting in the light from the still-open inn door.

Before he could stop himself, he was tumbling forward where Steep had been a moment before. She torqued out of the way, twisting and raking at his scales with her bare claws. The monitor felt sharp little teeth clamp onto his shoulder.

He arched backwards as Steep's lithe form wriggled onto his shoulders, flipping her over but not dislodging her. Her claws deepened their hold in his hide, and he grimaced, lifting his knife claw backwards in an attempt to slash her shoulders.

But her grip was strong, and his tired old body refused to lift any further, and then his cleaver was plummeting, plummeting, its edge pushing through skin. There was a sharp pain in his stomach.

Everything was scrambled. Soriss couldn't think straight past the roaring sea of red light and sound filling his head, and creatures were scrambling around him, their footpaws scratching trails in the snow. Voices both familiar and unfamiliar blurred together, only a few words making sense:

"Captain! ...all right?"

"Bloody...idiot...charged...."

"...protected...! Shouldn't...unarmed..."

Then Steep's voice came through, very clear, right near Soriss's head: "Odd... That's the second time today. Help me get this cleaver out of him..."

Soriss closed his eyes. He wished Naliss were here, holding his claw; his sister had always been his greatest comfort when he'd scraped off scales playing coconutters. He wanted to smell his mother's vile soups, wanted to hear his father's reedy hiss as he read the latest news, wanted to let his nephews cling to his tail.

His claws slackened around his cleaver, and he thought about how dull the blade was getting, and how if he treated his knives right, he'd really polish them once in a while.

He wondered why his life wasn't flashing before his eyes, and wondered casually if it was because he'd not had much of a life at all.

With a rattling sigh, Soriss fell asleep.

----

The first thing Soriss saw when he opened his eyes was the back of a ratmaiden in the distance.

Feeling weightless, he bounded up and sprang lightly across the grass -- too lightly. He froze and looked down at his gut. It was still there, wobbling cheerfully, but it didn't drag him down. Soriss's tongue flicked out, and he grinned widely. Now _this_ was excellent.

"Ssal!" he called, starting his bounding run again. "Ssal! It'sss me! Ssorisss! I'm here too!"

Strangely, the rat did not move, only leaned further over the table at which she was working. Soriss leaped effortlessly over the rushing river, landing on the other side with the grace of a dancing ottermaid, and shuffled the last few steps. He put his claw on the rat's shoulder.

"Ssal, I've misssed you. I -- tssssss! _Beetlesss_, you're not Ssal!"

He recoiled from the battle-scarred ears and death glare that greeted him as the ratmaid turned around. She was most certainly _not_ Sal, nor did she seem friendly or happy to see him in the least. She brought the scroll she was holding up to her face and squinted at it.

"Soriss d'Skeruk, yeh? O' Sinlale?"

"Y-yesss..." Soriss cowered under her ceaseless glare.

"You cook, yeh?"

"I -- got my culinary degree from The Culinaria Imperium Artissanal," the monitor said, his chest swelling slightly. He loved saying those words. They were so...melodious.

The rat's voice, however, was not. "Good. You'll be our new cook, then. Lemme educate you on things 'ere. My name's Rydina Tainsun -- I'm th' Fourth Fate. You obey me. No questions."

"What -- "

"_NO QUESTIONS_."

Soriss quivered. "Yesss, ma'am."

"Better. Now. Our last cook was a bloody moron, couldn't boil water t' save 'is life. In fact, 'e didn't save 'is life." Rydina got a rather wicked grin on her muzzle. "Enough beasts got angry an' sent 'im to th' next circle o' Dark Forest. Nasty stuff -- lots o' screamin', twitchin', self-stabbin', that sort o' thing."

This was the opposite of promising. Soriss's scales were threatening to unlatch from his hide and crawl away into the grass.

"But, if you can cook worth your salt, we'll let you stay 'ere," Rydina said, gesturing with her paw in a way that meant she thought she was being reasonable.

"Th-thank you?" It seemed the most proper thing to say.

Rydina looked pleased. "Y'welcome. Arright, gerroff, go find some other beast t' bother."

Soriss was only too happy to bow his way out of Rydina's range and scuttle off through the meadow. He found it decisively eerie and empty; if this was the infamous Dark Forest, shouldn't it be filled with the shades of the past?

"Naw, we prefer to keep everyone busy during the day. Makes the field less crowded."

Soriss jumped and fell over, popping back up like a weighted practice dummy. The ferret grinning from ear to ear at his side offered him a paw. "Sorry about that! You'll get used to readin' everyone's thoughts. Name's Tristan -- Tristan Farnon." He materialized a teapot and two cups from behind his back. "Poppyseed tea?"

The monitor put a claw over his eyes. "Thisss isss jusst too sstrange."

"Soriss!"

The delighted squeal made him peek through his claws, and then he was bounding across the field. "Ssal!"

The ratmaid and the lizard bodily whuffed into each other, then twirled in a tight circle. "Soriss! Y'made it!" Sal was beaming. "'s much nicer 'ere than _out there_. I'm certainly 'appy. Oooh! An' I must tell ye all about..." Her voice went up an octave, causing Soriss's teeth to nearly twitch out of his head. "Pylaris! 'e's 'ere!" A blush tinged her fur as she ducked her head and tugged on his arm. "And...'ow's the captain? 'E's okay, right? I 'aven't seen 'im 'ere yet, so I figgered..."

"He'sss jusst fine," the monitor said, mustering a smile. He scratched his side and absently looked at the scales that had flaked off onto his claws. "I'm...ssuppossed to cook for ssome rat named Rydina."

"Oh! That stuck-up twit." Sal covered her mouth with both paws, then collapsed into giggles. "She's all talk. But if'n ye want t' cook, there's so much 'ere! Ye can cook with anythin' y' want...Dark Forest ain't like _out there_."

Tristan sidled up. "Not at all. I can knock out teeth and they'll just pop right back. Ha! Endless work, and I'm free to enjoy every minute of it with no worries about getting run through by someone mad I took care of their toothache." The teacup in his left paw flashed, made a tinkling sound, and turned into a mallet. His other paw held a spike. "Any tooth problems, mate?"

Soriss squeaked and backed away. Sal gave the ferret a hearty push. "Go on -- no one wants yer service t'day."

With a lofty sigh, the ferret flung his implements over one shoulder; Soriss dodged just in time to avoid getting clunked over the head. "Isss it like thisss every day?"

The rat shrugged. "Depends on how th' Fates are feelin'. C'mon, I'll show you th' kitchens!"

No sooner had she spoken than the meadow disappeared and they were inside a vast, cheery room, stretching as far as Soriss could see and filled to the brim with everything a cook could desire: food stores, spices, pots and pans, kettles, spoons, silverware, plates, knives...

Soriss frantically patted at his stomach. His knives were gone! He wanted to be angry, but couldn't seem to muster up the proper emotion. Sal cocked her head at him, nodded, and clapped her paws together. The comforting weight of the cleaver and the serrated knife appeared in his claws.

Grumbling filled the air, and Sal looked down at her ample stomach, patting it. "Mmm, I'm 'ungry."

An unexplainable joy filled Soriss, and he whisked himself further into the kitchen, twirling with delight. This was all his! For eternity! His eyes began to water when his gaze settled on the familiar insect traps set up neatly in the corner.

"Ssal," he said. Setting his knives down on the edge of the biggest island he'd ever seen, he reached out a claw to the ratmaid. "Would you like to learn how to cook?"

Her delighted smile as she stepped forward and took his claw warmed his heart. "Oh, yes please."

The hours became days and the days became eternities as the rat sat on a stool, her footpaws swinging, and the lizard diced and sauteéd and sang to himself.

end of week three.


	45. The Manhattan Project

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week four.

**Chapter 44. The Manhattan Project  
**

_by Lock  
_

Personal Log

Thermidor 3, 1780

The testing of the Cat-apult has proven slightly flawed. It seems that the recoil effect of the sling tends to shake apart the framework of the device, causing many cracks in the wood. Better shocks will have to be developed. Also having trouble keeping the cats intact after we launch them. I have designated a group to investigate better helmets.

I have become frustrated with the current design. The sling doesn't seem to provide the power needed. Aim is also a problem. Wood continues to rupture. I have put forward a suggestion to form a more tube-like structure to improve control of projectile, as well as a metal casing. The sling continues to be an issue.

On a brighter note, our attempts at alchemy and providing the Emperor with the gold of the world seem to have had a strange consequence. I mentioned in prior entries of my observations of mixing the various dusts and powders brought back from our proud Navy's expeditions from the many islands of our Empire. To think that some of my colleagues considered their findings mere rubbish! Certainly, our original attempts to turn these powders into gold have proven unsuccessful. However, the attempts to try and harness the elements in our search of alchemy seem to have proven dividends.

Powder Combination 64 (consisting of the identified materials of Sulfurry, Nightrate, and the more common Charcoal) has not reacted to water, earth, or air as we had hoped. However, when a sample was treated to fire, an interesting reaction occurred. No sooner had Combination 64 come into contact with fire than the powder began to hiss loudly before igniting, burning with sparks and a bright flare, and finally burst with a sharp banging noise. After this peculiar display, all that was left was a scorch mark on the table, and oddly, bore a small hole in the wood.

This may not provide gold as we originally intended, but I believe we may have discovered something better. Further tests will be conducted.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations.

Personal Log

Humidor 1, 1780

Further tests with Powder Combination 64 have proven successful. Have altered the combination slightly so as to lessen the smoke and increase the bang. Today's test succeeded in actually blowing the test table in half! And still with only a relative small amount of 64. I shall notify the Emperor of my findings and ask for permission for further investigation.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations.

Humidor 2, 1780

To His Majesty, the One and Only Emperor, Maximillian Elton von Carmike:

As is the case in many such things, I have good news and bad news. Knowing that you prefer bad news first, if you prefer it at all, I shall deliver my report in that order.

The bad news is thus: our attempts at creating gold out of the various materials you have graciously provided the Ministry has not proven successful, although we have tried various experiments and attempts to make it work (if you so desire, I can provide the paperwork to ensure I am not making this up). I blame myself for not providing enough research into alchemy in the past. Please accept my sincerest apologies on the issue, and if any punishment is to be dealt out for this failure, I shall accept full responsibility (though I'd prefer no punishment at all. But that is entirely up to you, my Lord).

The good news is that our experiments have not been a complete waste. In our work we have discovered a new formula which has explosive results (pardon the pun). Exact details on this creation are enclosed in the file attached to this letter, so I shall not reiterate the entire process. What I must stress is that this formula (Powder Combination 64) is more powerful than any arrow, ballista, or sword, and that is with just a small amount. Only a pawful managed to destroy a thick oak table in a single second, a feat which would take even the heftiest axe a minute to hew. However, the Ministry had only limited supplies to begin with, and are now practically out of what is needed to further investigation. With your permission, I should like to request your fleet to gather more of the supplies required to produce Combination 64. We should not allow the possibilities of this thing to go unheeded.

Most Respectfully, Your Servant,

Colonel Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations.

Humidor 24, 1780

To Colonel Arbach:

You are right in assuming that I prefer the bad news first, if at all. Your failure to provide me with the gold of the world is disappointing, but I shall get over it. Of course, due to the lack of gold being created for me out of dirt, there shall have to be funding cuts to some of our departments. And your request for a raise is also right out, I should add.

Regarding the other matter; I have read through the report you provided, and am really quite impressed with your findings. If you are right, this should provide us with an edge with some of our potential enemies. I still suspect that the South was behind that peasant uprising in 1754, and should like to remind them who they are dealing with. You know, of course, my opinions on this so called "Empire." Vile upstarts. You have my permission to send in your request to my Navy for however much material you need.

Your Master for Life,  
The One and Only Emperor, Maximillian Elton von Carmike

Official Requisition Form for Imperial Navy Imports

Name: Abalone Arbach  
Rank: Minister of Innovations  
Importance: Very.  
Date: Milarkus 20, 1780.

Items Requested and/or Desired  
-8 tons of Sulfurry  
-7 tons of Nightrate  
-7 tons of Charcoal

Additional Notes: This requisition is on behalf of the Emperor's wishes. Any attempts to roll this requisition form into a wad and throw it away will result in harsh disciplinary action.

Personal Log

Primary 10, 1781.

I have finally mastered the perfect ratios for Combination 64 to be at its peak potential. The blast today was greater than ever before, and the smoke less in turn. Our work has been a complete success.

There is only one thing left that I wish to test. All of our prior tests have only been with a pawful of Combination 64, and in a very small confine. I desire to see what a greater amount of the formula will do, and as such have filled a barrel full of the pre-mentioned perfected version. Of course, lighting this off within the Ministry is out of the question. I believe I shall try it out in one of the abandoned buildings within the Slups.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations.

The Daily Smelt, Primary 11, 1781

**Dragons Attack Bully Harbour?**

As many of our loyal readers are likely aware of already, the peace of our beloved Harbour was shaken last night by an occasion so momentous that nothing in recent memory even begins to compare. At a time of around one o'clock in the morning, the entire of Bully Harbour was awoken by a tremendous roar, echoing from the Insanely Rich Area to the Barracks. The noise was loudest, however, in the Slups, where, witnesses claim, a tremendous fireball consumed not only the ancient _Cheap Soup Tower_, but at least three other nearby shacks as well. Yet these were not the only victims: all forms of debris were flung through the air, shattering windows and hitting unwary beasts with bricks and rocks. Cracks have been discovered in more than one alley and road way, and most unfortunate of all, a sluice cover was ruptured, though the smell actually seems to improve the Slups usual odour.

What could have caused such destruction on this unprecedented scale? Reader of many books and acknowledged smart ferret, Old Rumbly, believes he knows the answer.

"Dragons, innit? Course it is! Them lizardy things are the only beasts that could muster up a fireball that big. Mark ol' Rumbly's words, we got ourselves a dragon problem. Prolly made 'em angry when we let those Southie refugees in, back in 1776. I said that was a mistake, and I was right. As usual."

As for these Southie refugees that Old Rumbly speaks of, they have wasted no time in complaining that aide and relief was sent to our own hobos and bums in the Slups before them. Chalk it up as another whining session from the ungrateful twerps.

Our staff begs that if any of our readers see a dragon, do not attempt to slay it yourself. We have it on authority that the Minister of War is already seeing to the creation of a professional Dragon Slaying Committee, who will take care of the job. If threatened by a dragon, run around in circles until they get confused and fly away.

Reported by H.B. Kay.

Personal Log

Primary 16, 1781.

I have only just recovered from the shock of the test on the 11 of this month. Though I escaped any dire injuries from the explosion, I was knocked unconscious for some time, and regaining my sense took some time. Being able to fathom what I have done took even longer.

I should explain: the barrels (I decided on multiple barrels of Combination 64, eager to see what would happen. Curse my curiosity) were placed in the center of the ground floor of the old _Cheap Soup Tower _, where an ugly, yet solid, rock sculpture was placed. I had hoped to see if my formula could reduce such a hunk of stone to rubble. Reduce a mere statue to rubble! Such a desire seems frivolous to what happened next! The ignited barrels not only reduced the statue, they reduced the entire building! And not just the tower, but I'm told three others as well! Further damage to the Slups was beyond anything I had anticipated: the shockwaves damaged buildings for miles, and killed several civilians, which not part of the intended test.

For myself, I am a bit of a loss. The goal was to create a blasting powder of great magnitude, certainly, and perhaps to weaponize such a discovery. Yet the explosion of the 11 was beyond anything I had either anticipated or desired. The magnitude of consequences of using Combination 64 in a mass detonation is astronomical. I levelled a small section of the Slups by myself; what would happen if a beast with more dire intentions got hold of my creation and used it on an even greater scale? What if it is not only buildings destroyed next, but citizens?

I begin to regret my research.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations.

The Daily Smelt, Soggus 4, 1786.

**Southern Stooge Snubs Special Ceremony!**

It has been brought to our attention here at the Smelt that our Empire has been insulted for over two days now, and we only just learned of it! The indignity is paramount, and our lazier correspondents have been sacked.

As was heralded throughout the land, our Beloved Emperor, Fontesque Eckhart Voss I, enjoyed his coronation on Soggus 2, marking the beginning of his reign as the One and Only Emperor, Ever. Of course, being the One and Only Emperor, Emperor Voss is the only Emperor we've ever had, and the coronation was a mere formality. Because the Emperor is all powerful and never dies. (It should also be noted to our readers that the name Maximillian Elton von Carmike, who is very dead and not the Emperor, is to be scratched from all records, books, and decorative calendars. Because Emperor Voss is the only Emperor ever. Period.)

The coronation was very nice, we are told, and the Emperor and his Ministers looked very lovely. We should like to say the same of the head of the Southern Embassy, a Mrs. Miniver Steep. We cannot, however, because the ungrateful hussy was not present. Apparently, protesting the so called "unfair treatment" of Southern immigrants in the Vulpinsula is more important than paying respects to his Majesty. To even assume that anybeast who lives in the Slups is remotely on the same level of existence as the Emperor is enough to make this reporter kick his secretary squarely in the gut.

One thing is for certain: the Southern Empire is not going to be on any more guest lists for some time. Don't be surprised if the Emperor's wrath is quickly and heftily displayed.

Reported by H.B. Kay

Merry 5, 1786.

To Colonel Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations:

It has come to our Emperor's attention, as well as the Ministry of Commerce, that you and your Ministry, in the years of 1780-81, were investigating an experiment which required a very expensive gathering of materials on behalf of the Emperor's Navy. We have not received a single report on the subject since Primary 11, 1781, although a certain Smelt story regarding "Dragons" would have us believe your research was successful. As it would be a waste of guilders and resources if the several tons of material shipped to your department were to sit idle, the Emperor demands that you continue production of this Combination 64, with regular reports provided on your progress. Or else any further funding will be withheld from the Ministry of Innovations.

_May the blessings of His Grace the Emperor tumble down upon you like a golden fog,_

Lord Brewtus, Minister of Commerce, on behalf of The One and Only Emperor, Fontesque Eckhart Voss

Personal Log

Dismembre 20, 1786

Against my better judgement, we have succeeded in upping our production of Combination 64. We have now gone through most of the supplies from 1860, and are storing the formula in our warehouse. I can only hope no one smokes a pipe near the area.

The redesigned Cat-apult has also proven successful, especially after the replacement of the sling mechanism with a small portion of 64. The longer tube frame allows aim to be superior, and the we have finally managed to create a metal casing solid enough to contain the explosion. Have also replaced the use of cats as ammunition with rocks. The effects have been remarkable: the launching power has exceeded any trebuchet designed.

And yet, I have a feeling of dread.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations

The Daily Smelt, Macabre 18, 1788

**Southern Spy Ring Get Snuffed!**

Early yesterday afternoon, the Southern Embassy, the headquarters of treachery and malicious intent, was raided by our very own Stoatorian Guard and Fogey forces. Though this reporter would have accepted such an act for no reason at all, the causation of this decision on the Minister of War's behalf is nothing short of dire. Investigation has revealed that from the Southern Embassy, various espionage activities and plots of terrorist activity have been in the forefront of Southern minds for the last few years. Doubtless, our readers remember the uprisings and riots of Southern immigrants which took place in 1784, as well as other such intrusions of the peace in the near past. It appears that these vile occurrences were orchestrated by Southern Authorities within the Embassy building, whose goal was nothing short of the undermining of the entire Empire.

"We have had inklings of such matter for some time now," says distinguished Minister of War, Lord Baltsar. "After the incident in the theatre, of course, there could be no doubt that something was up."

The incident to which Lord Baltsar refers to is the shameless attempt on our Emperor's life, when he visited the production of The Tragedy of Francis the Swan, which is still playing for only 5 guilders a ticket. During his Majesty's enjoyment of the play, a mysterious stoat burst into his private box wielding a dagger, and cried "For Southern rights, hurrah!" Thankfully, the Minister of War, who was also present, is a rapier master, and dispatched of the rogue before things got out of paw.

"Further investigation pointed all claws towards the Southern Embassy being behind the whole thing."

None of our own brave lads were killed during the skirmish at the building, although reports reveal that the Southern Ambassador herself, Miniver Steep, was killed. Serves her right for being evil. The Smelt heartily commends our Captain of the Stoatorian Guard, Gloria Ruston, for doing the deed.

Reported by H.B. Kay.

Personal Log

Macabre 18, 1788

Everything I have dreaded for the last seven years has arrived with this morning's edition of the Smelt. It was bad enough that I was forced to continue production of my weapon, but I consoled myself that it may never be used. Consoled, pah! Deluded myself willingly is more like it. But now it's all come to a head. A blind water rat could see the writing on the wall now.

The Southern Ambassador dead at the paws of our own Minister of War can only lead to further conflict between our two nations. This can only mean that the Emperor will insist on the use of Combination 64 in the coming conflict. It will ensure us victory, naturally. But victory is to come in this manner, I would rather have us lose.

I alone have seen what this weapon can do. The Emperor doesn't understand the destructive capabilities of my creation. And that was only with three barrels of the stuff! In the past two years we have manufactured the entire shipment of material from 1780 into usable versions of the weapon. What would happen if the entire batch went off? Bully Harbour would vanish! Perhaps the entire Vulpinsula.

I do not want to see my creation used again. Once was enough. The very prospect of its power frightens me to no end. Seeing an entire building decimated was bad; seeing it used against other living beasts would be horrible beyond imagine.

I must do away with it all. But I fear attempts at throwing it into the sea would be too overt, and I should be arrested as a traitor (or polluter). And exploding it is, of course, out of the question.

I seem to remember reading in a previous Minister of Innovations report of the creation of an incredibly secret safe. I shall try to find it.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations

Macabre 23, 1788

Have found what I was looking for, and have worked out a plan for accessing the safe. There is no time to lose.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations

The Daily Smelt, Macabre 31, 1788

**Spot-pox Scare! Southern Scam?**

Southern treachery knows no bounds, it would seem. A box with no return address was delivered to the Imperial Palace at Amarone yesterday, with the note attached saying that it contained vital information regarding a vicious plot. All the box contained, it was revealed, was a multicoloured powder which burst out in a cloud of smoke upon the box being opened. A second note recovered from the powdery poof revealed that the box contained the concentrated form of Spot-pox disease, which was even now spreading its way throughout the palace!

Our readers will be happy to know that the Emperor, Ministers, and all personnel have been evacuated from the palace before any spotty effects could be detected. Demonstrating his plethora of knowledge, the Minister of Innovations, Colonel Abalone Arbach, has claimed he knows how to stop the disease from spreading and how to wipe it out. Several cartloads of what this reporter assumes is very technical supplies were wheeled into Amarone last night, and the Minister is already hard at work. We hope for the best, Colonel Arbach. We're all rooting for you!

Reported by H.B. Kay.

Personal Log

Dismembre 1, 1788

It's done now, after a month of work. I've succeeded in hiding away my evil creation, with hopes that no beast will ever find it again.

Who would have thought that the safest place to hide a weapon that I don't want the Emperor to find would be inside the Emperor's own palace? But it is safe there, undeniably so; I have seen the safe firsthand, inspected it, and can be sure that it's undetectable and nigh on un-crackable. It seems that, back at the turn of the 1600's, the Minister of Innovations at the time was called upon to create a grand safe to protect the Emperor's jewels. The safe was built, but the jewels wound up being stolen before they could be put in, and so the safe was forgotten about all together. Truly a brilliant set up for it, though. Out of all the places in Amarone, who would suspect the ballroom in the basement of holding any kind of great treasure? Well, it does now, and it shall for ever more. Treasure might not be the right word for it; it's more like keeping a beast caged.

Out of concern that the location be compromised, I have burnt any and all references to the safe that I could find in the records. Only my young apprentice, a Mr. Bait N. Switch, now knows how to open the safe.

As for this log, I am putting it in the secret drawer underneath my desk, where I trust it shall be safe. I'm not the Minister of Innovations for nothing; one would either have to be a genius to break into the reinforced steel drawer I've constructed, or they'd have to collapse the entire building. Neither event is likely to happen.

I can safely say that there will be no more dragons in the Empire for some time.

Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations

Primary 11, 1790

To Colonel Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations:

I am displeased.

Your Master for What Remains of Your Life,

Emperor Fontesque Eckhart Voss

Daily Smelt, Primary 20, 1790.

**Minister of Innovations Found Dead!**

No sooner had this reporter begun his morning stroll to his printing press than the body of Colonel Abalone Arbach fell from the roof of the Ministry of Innovations and landed directly at my feet. I was inclined to ask if he was alright, but the giant nail imbedded in his head seemed to render such a gesture pointless.

Contact with any of the other Ministers has not been forthcoming, and information is scarce to come by. However, MAUL has explicitly denied any connection with the murder, and resents that we came to interview them first. "What the blazes do you _mean_ 'did you kill the Minister of Innovations?'" asked a spokesbeast for MAUL. "Get out of here before yer one nose short of a face!"

Further news will be presented as it arises.

Reported by H.B. Kay.

To S1:

Unforeseen problem with Ballroom Dance. Dance Partner has gone missing. Party Host wouldn't talk. Should we continue search?

V1.

To V1:

Too risky if you do it yourself. Lots of Peeping Toms at these parties, and you can't risk detection. We'll do it ourselves.

S1.


	46. Half a World Away

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 45. Half a World Away  
**

_by Steep  
_

Steep took another step, another lungful of freezing, rancid air, and closed her eyes as she tugged the still-limp lizard corpse through the alley. Just a few more steps and she could roll him the rest of the way behind the garbage heaps. The fish-heads would mask his smell until she was supping wine from Emperor Voss's private cellars under the palace, when it would be anything but her problem.

She didn't care what Pip or General Lock thought: if somebeast came at her with a cleaver, they were a _soldier_. She wasn't even entertain the notion that he hadn't been.

She did, however, briefly wonder just what exactly she had done to tick everybeast off so fitfully. The ratmaid had been ranting about Pylaris—that alone made Steep wonder—but the lizard? Had he simply become overwhelmed in the presence of Steep the Unstoppable? ("I heard she walked out of the Bilge after setting it on fire and she was on fire too, and then she waltzed right into Ruston's bedroom while she was on fire and kidnapped her newest bootboy and set the Manse on fire and it blew up and then she collapsed the MinoInn's place and set it on fire and climbed out afterwards and she was _still on fire_!")

A more paranoid beast would be wondering why both encounters had the same non-interfering witness...

Leaving Soriss's bloodied hulk in the shadows, she crept back around to the side of the inn. Pip was squatting miserably next to the satchel the lizard had been carrying for him. Steep grabbed it in one paw and headed back inside.

"Don't even start, Pip," she said as he followed her in. "Sooner or later you have to realise not every beast in this town is an innocent participant in this war. In fact, nobeast is." She turned her head to glance at him. "Not even you."

She expected a few things: a sullen rebuttal, a smarmy retort, or even just regular old stiff acknowledgment. What she was not expecting was the plover to break down and start trying to wash the hallway rug with his tears. The words came fast and garbled, interspersed with choked sobs and a noise that was not unlike porridge being stepped in:

"I didn't mean to, Captain! It was all wrong! There were two of 'em... two! What could I have done? And then I went for the office, 'cause it'd have windows and then they ran after me—I didn't think they'd be that fast! And there was a trap, I mean, it is the MinoMis, right? And they fell down it—Spikes! Spikes in a pit! Only one didn't fall and tried to grab me, that is the satchel, and I got him off it. I don't know why, but I was so scared and mad and I had power! I knew he'd kill me if he could, and I didn't know what I was thinking, but I swung the satchel, then. I swung it, Captain! He was just hanging there, couldn't have done anything to me, but he was there and bad, and I killed him, Captain."

Steep pressed a paw to her scab and sighed, her ears flattening to drown out the rest of Pip's blubbering—not that it worked.

"You are dismissed, Pip. Get some rest." She paused, staring hard at the wall. Pip quieted down a little. "Let me know in the morning if you need time off."

Marching to Amarone without an aerial scout would be dangerous, but armies had managed before. She'd been to the palace before. It was just a road, after all.

"But... tomorrow we march, ma'am..."

"Like I said... let me know in the morning. Thank you for the... whatever this is," she said, hefting the satchel in her paws.

"You're welcome," Pip said, blinking rapidly, until his eyes were clear once more. They stared at each-other for a few more silent seconds before the plover began hopping up the second flight of stairs up to the attic.

Steep shut her door quietly and slouched towards her desk, kicking her boots off along the way. She dumped the satchel on the desk and sat. Her paw snaked out blindly, bumping into the bottle of wine and nearly knocking it off the desk. Somehow it survived its way to her mouth.

Her dress, she realised, was ruined. Sure, maybe the blood just gave an odd mottling effect _now_, but when it dried it would not only look awful, but smell awful and be all stiff and unpleasant. There was just no getting blood out of silk properly. Oh, well.

The bottle clanged, empty, against the floorboards, and rolled to a rest against the rug behind her. A cigar was produced from a drawer, and lit in the lantern hanging from the wall nearby.

She opened the satchel. Her paws shook.

Smelt clippings. Political things, mostly. Steep scanned them listlessly, not paying much attention in case she read something she did not approve of. The cleaning rat's words tried to worm their way under her brain; Steep shut them out and moved on to the next item: a book—a dairy, rather, which seemd to be filled with paranoid delusions and confused sketches. This she put aside to read later. No doubt Lock would be pleased to get his paws on it... not that he would ever show it.

Steep let out a squeak of horror at the next item. Wrapped in twine was a stack of letters, their yellow-brown gradient telling of the years between the start and end of correspondence. _Her_ correspondence. She tore open a letter at random and scanned the contents. Yes. Her letters. Someone had taken her letters and put them in this satchel with all this other stuff on _purpose_. She threw the brick of paper aside as if it were on fire—aiming for her bed, where it bounced safely to a halt.

There was a folder next, crammed with more information about Pylaris. His history, a family tree, something that looked suspiciously like a stake-out schedule and, upon closer inspection, proved itself to be so. Somebeast had been spying on the spy. Somebeast knew everything. Maybe several somebeasts.

Gritting her teeth and nearly biting the cigar in half, Steep flipped through, scanning furiously for any mention of her name. There were a few. These papers she ripped out and crumpled, regardless of what other information they held. When she got to the last item, her heart skipped a beat. Maybe several beats.

It was very unpleasant.

Her claw moved slowly, edging out the maroon wax. She had to swallow more than once as she pulled out the fresh-looking parchment. Her tail wagged.

_R~,_

C8 to D7_—looks like you're going to win again._

I sent along an herb that might help with the pain. I faked a headache and was able to see the family's physician. He's one of the best in the Imperium, I'm told. I remember Mum said something about that being important in her line of work. I've placed it, and a special picture for you. I had to sneak out of the house to have it done, but I wanted it to be special.

The next time the pain keeps you up, I want you to do something for me. I want you to go outside and close your eyes. Breathe in the sea air and the cold wind.

The same salt will be stinging my eyes and caking my fur. The same cold will chill my breath. Remember that.

Then, open your eyes and look at the moon. See how every night, now, it gets closer to the North Star—they say that star leads you home. That's us. We're so far apart, as far as the space between the stars, and each day I go without seeing you it feels like an immeasurable distance. But then all it takes is a simple bit of parchment. Three little lines of ink and that distance is gone. We drift together. Almost touching.

Someday I hope the moon and the North Star close that gap again. Someday I hope you'll follow that North Star, or I, and find a home. A real home. Somewhere with you.

Next time you feel you can't go on another night, remember all that. Remember a night not so long ago. A better night spent in my arms. That will make the pain go away.

Find me by gull or our some-time maid when you arrive, if they finally do start this fool war. I won't be able to pull out of the city, but I'll stay hidden. For you.

Your love, with kisses,  
~Y

It was a few minutes before she was calm and dry-eyed enough to peel out the picture from within the envelope, and then the waterworks started all over again, stinging her whiskers fiercely.

The shirtless, smiling stoat was unmistakably Pylaris. But the weaselmaid he had his arm and tail wrapped around was mistakably _her_. The artist had done her well, despite her not being there. There was the spike of brown fur under her chin, there was the scab on her nose, just as she had described it in her letters, and there was the sky-blue dress, the same one she'd worn when they'd last met. Despite all this, Steep didn't recognise it for a few tear-blurred minutes.

It was the smile on the weaselmaid's face that threw her.

A sudden rapping at the door caused her to leap out of her chair backwards with a highly undignified squeal.

Working quickly, she shoved the satchel under the bed, tugged at the sheets so they would drape over the edge, and grabbed her letters off the top. She kicked open her trunk—not her real trunk, which had burned in the Bilge, but the trunk her true belongings had been shifted to—and dumped them in, then carefully placed Pylaris's letter and portrait on top and shut the lid.

She stomped out the cigar glowing menacingly on the carpet and tugged her dress into a respectable shape. She put her paw on the doorknob.

"Who is it?" Her voice creaked sickeningly.

"It's me, Captain. Pip."

The door edged open.

"Did you bring any more assassins?"

"He was a cook, not an assassin! You saw the cleaver! No assassin would use _that_!"

Steep winced at the indignant shrilling, but allowed the plover inside. She sat back down at her desk and began tugging at the cork on another bottle of wine. _Stupid whiffy wine, barely a buzz. How'm I going to sleep at this rate? I'll need half a dozen more..._

"I was thinking," he said. "And I thought to let you know before morning, that I am fighting fit! What's that?"

"Letters," she said, dragging the pile of parchment out of a drawer. "I was working on them before you interrupted me. Earlier, I mean, not just now."

"Oh... want me to lend a claw?"

"Depends. You're not going to _make sure_ of anything I don't want you to, are you?" She reached over and dragged the nightstand over, closer to the desk.

"I'll try and resist the urge, ma'am." Pip glanced at the bottle on the rug, then at the one cradled inside the crook of her elbow. "I see you're enjoying the wine I had sent over..."

"Fat lot of good it's doing me now," she mumbled. "Weak as kittens. Here's some for you. I'm just censoring them. And I will read your work when you're through."

Pip hopped onto the nightstand and fished about in his messenger tube. He came out with a silver nib, which he then slipped onto a talon. "Alright. Anything in particular I should be looking for? Or just err on the side of unintelligible?"

"Names, places, ranks, anything about officers, anything too personal for an enemy to read about, and anything that sounds too complainy. And swears. For a bunch of grass-munchers, they're very dirty."

She slid over a letter she had finished earlier, pointing at her 'corrections'.

_Dear Sadie,_

We have █████ █████ █████ ███████ now and tomorrow we █████ ██████ ████████. ███████ █████ hosted an amazing dinner for the whole company of roast ██████. It was exquisite.

███ ███████ seemed ill but I don't blame ███, ███████ ██ that fat oaf ██ █ ███████ anyone would be ill. Especially when food went flying out of his mouth across the table. And he calls himself ████████.

Thank you for the ███, it was very thoughtful of you. However I was forbidden to wear it as it didn't match the colors of my ███████. How is the seam-stressing going? Any more gentlebeasts dropping by for ██████ socks? I'll write ████ if they are, he'll put short work to that.  
grate  
The army is still entertaining ███████████ ██ ████████. It's ██████████. But I have been permanently ████████ ██ ██████████, so you're in love with an ███████ now as well as a █████. Don't you set your sights high.

Enclosed are several ██████s to pay that chap on H████ Ave. to write for you. I miss you.

Attached are all my affections.

-████ D████shire ███'

Pip nodded and set to work. Steep found herself staring blankly at her own pile. The topmost letter was signed _Lilith_. It was dated a week ago. A week... felt like yesterday. _Had been_ yesterday.

Shaking herself, she set about crossing out words of importance. A few letters later, Pip broke the silence with a chortle.

"Haha, this idiot spelled 'Bully Harbour' wrong!"

Steep peered over at it. "No, he didn't."

Pip glanced at one of Steep's reports laying about the desk, then to the letter he held, then back at her. "No... no, you're right, Captain. He's fine."

She frowned, but let it slide. "Who wrote it?"

Pip's eyes traveled down to the bottom. "Private... Private Bingo." He looked up at her. "What do we do with it? I mean, he's..."

"We send it through. Send them all through. Don't—don't bother, Pip." She reached out and grasped his ankle as he began to write on the blank space left over. "We do that later. After the war. With pensions and General Scott's stamps and gold leaf and all. We do _not_ send our condolences. That isn't our job right now."

"They should know. It's not right, Captain. They should know who died!"

"Why?" Steep snapped, half rising from her chair. "_Why_? So they can whinge and mope and call us murderers? Raise a rebellion in the fields? We've already got the bloody SLA trying to assassinate Devonshire's father, not to mention my own, wouldn't it be grand if our own began to think that's a fan-wheezin'-tastic idea? Over half the Empire's lads are trying to get a bit of—of shut eye before they die, and their old mums are filling in the jobs our soldiers used to do, and what good will it do them to know, Pip? What good? Can you tell me? To take that last shred of hope and burn it? Think they'll thank us—oh, Bingo and Husker and—and Trestles and Petey and Lilith, oh yes, _thank you_ Cabin Bird First Class Pleasantrie for your—for telling us they died in a _stupid_ bloody front-rank assault, want to tell them how they all drowned or burned to death, or how far the bits flew? What an honourable little soul!"

Steep blinked, staring down at her desk, which was somehow tipped over on its side, papers and wine spilt everywhere.

Pip sat huddled beneath the bed, wings held up to protect from the splashes of debris.

"It _is_ stupid, Captain," he conceded sadly. "None of us should've been over here in the first place!"

Another knock sounded at the door, a thicker noise produced by a proper knuckle-crack of someone's paw. Steep shot Pip a look and staggered over to the door.

"Who is it?"

"Major Gibbs. I have a delivery for Captain Steep, from General Scott."

"She isn't in right now," Steep said.

"I know that's you, Captain! Look, it's nothing very—this is heavy, would you open the door? It's nightgowns."

Steep opened the door. Indeed, the wildcat had a full load. Yellow nightgowns, stacked nearly twenty tall, lay across his arms.

"Just put them on the dresser," she said, indicating the piece of furniture in question. Gibbs plopped them down and turned, getting a proper look at the rest of the room. To Steep's delight, he didn't say a word until he was back out in the hallway.

"I apologise for the late hour, Captain. I had a bottle of brandy as well, but I'm afraid it fell out of my pocket on the way. Can't be helped. Good night, you and your..." he nodded at the hunched figure under the bed. Steep slammed the door. Then, after a few seconds of fuming and filling her cheeks with the colour of fried cherries, pulled it open again. "He's my _secretary_."

"That's what Darcy says, too."

Gibbs hummed a polite little tune as he sauntered down the stairs. He stopped and pointed.

"And somebeast should get this railing fixed. I nearly fell."

Sticking her tongue out in the universal expression of disgust, Steep closed the door to just a smidgen and grabbed the first nightgown off the stack. She headed towards the changing screen in the corner of the room.

"If you're still here by the time I'm changed, I'm going to boot you out the window. Go to sleep, Pip. I'll finish the paperwork on my own." She popped her head over the screen to give him a glare for effect.

Pip paused at the door and gave one more glance at the remnants of the desk. "Sorry again, Captain. I hope you sleep well."

_So do I... three bottles in one night? Well, technically two..._

"Pip."

"Yes?"

"You don't have any letters of your own in that tube of yours, do you?"

Her eyes narrowed. Pip replied without hesitation.

"No, Captain."

The door clicked softly shut.

The nightdress was comfortable, if a little chilly from its time spent en route to the inn. It was just the right amount of frilly to keep her feeling pretty, and there were little ducks on the hemline which, she was sure, would cause no lack of entertainment in the evenings to come.

With a bit of effort, she managed to set her desk upright again. She set her now-three-legged chair up and began sorting papers. She made a mental note to ask Pip to keep tabs on the Plume in the Bonnet; if it exploded, collapsed, or became a blazing inferno, and if so, how and why and when, and would he be so kind as to set about checking the integrity of the Wild-Cater-Wall Inn and Lock's headquarters? Meanwhile, she would try not to enter too many important landmarks...

Halfway through the third bottle of wine, she got up and dug around in her luggage, producing a thick, wedge-shaped piece of wood. She placed it above her tongue and clamped down on it, her teeth fitting into familiar indents.

She resumed her paperwork, pausing only to whimper and press her claws into her scab.

By the time the lantern hanging from the wall guttered out, she was asleep, head resting on the stack of censored letters, and her right paw lying flat against Pylaris's portrait.

And as she slept, something rather similar to a contented smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth... Or perhaps it was just her pacifier.


	47. Mother Superior, Absolve Me of My Sins

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 46. Mother Superior, Absolve Me of My Sins  
**

_by Seth  
_

_Dearest, darlingest Seth,_

I miss you so much. How many days 'til you come home? You should come back soon. I would smother you with kisses. Todd got a bucket stuck on his head this week. I love you.

Sadie

* * * *

A dark-robed figure moved along the hallways of the Wild-Cater-Wall Inn. Behind him, trailing along at the end of a string, a much smaller dark-robed figure moved. Along the hallways, torches hung in metal brackets, casting eerie shadows on the walls. All around them and throughout the inn was the silence of dozens of sleeping beasts. The shuffling pawsteps of the two seemed to echo in that silence.

Then somebeast snored and the little robed beast whimpered. The bigger robed figure grunted and tugged on the string bringing the little one up to speed. Now there was a staircase looming before them. With a wary glance at the broken railing near the top the two started up, the little one using his front paws to pull himself up a step at a time. From beneath his robe a small fluffy tail occasionally peeked out.

Once at the top, the taller figure pulled a scrap of paper out of his robe and inspected it for a few minutes before knocking at the first door. After a polite pause, he knocked again. The third time he raised his paw to knock, a female's voice called out, "'oo izzet?"

The figure paused, as if uncertain, and then knocked again.

This time the door flew open to reveal a disheveled-looking weasel in a frilly yellow nightgown, with drool matting the left side of her face and a doorstop in her mouth.

For a moment there was complete silence as the cloaked figure tried to drown its surprise. Then it blinked and pushed back its hood, revealing a vixen of rather advanced years.

"Er… is this… em… I need…"

"Oowenooant?"

The fox took a step back and blinked while a surprised look appeared on the weasels face and her eyes crossed in an attempt to look at her mouth. Flushing red, Steep jerked the binky out of her mouth and glared at the vixen.

"What do you want?" She growled.

The fox eyed the broken railing behind her and thought very strongly about retreating carefully.

"Em, I'm looking for Seth Devonshire." She managed finally. "I have a delivery to make."

"Fifth door on the right," snapped Steep. "Learn to tell time! Or read doorplates! Wheezin' nocturnal rubbish old broads..."

The door slammed.

The fox waited a moment, then said a very quiet, "Thank you." Pulling on the string attached to the smaller beast, she moved down the hallway, counting. When she came to the fifth door she stopped and took a deep breath. Then, raising her paw, she knocked.

* * * *

_Seth looked down into Sadie's green gaze. She smirked at him._

"I told you you'd get tired first."

Seth shrugged and threw himself down on the grass. "It wasn't my idea to walk all the way out here to see a cave," he growled. "Besides, I'm nobility. I can be tired whenever I want."

Sadie sat down beside him and tickled his nose with her tail tip. "Well I'm a commoner, which means I don't have to be tired if I don't want to be."

Seth raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged. "That you're a lazy git and I'm not sure why I like you?"

"I could have you beaten for insulting a noble."

"Did I ever tell you that one of your ears is crooked? It makes you look silly."

Seth reached up and hooked a paw around her neck. "Shut up and kiss me."

She resisted his tugging. "I'm not sure I will."

He sat up and kissed her, hard. She giggled.

"What?" he growled, pulling away.

"What would your mother think?"

Seth rolled his eyes and pushed her down. "Quite a few things, I imagine. But I don't intend to dwell on any of them."  


Tap, taptap.

_Seth blinked. For a moment Sadie's face faded and then all was clear again. "Did you hear something?" he asked._

She grinned. "Your heart's racing." 

Taptaptap.

Seth moaned, rolled over, and fell off a cliff.

When he hit the floor beside his bed, he yelped and his eyes snapped open. That _hurt_. And things were just getting good too! It wasn't fair!

Taptaptap, tap.

Seth snarled and tried to stand, but the bed sheets were tangled around his footpaws. He hissed at them and kicked them away.

"Whoever you are," he yelled at the door, "Go away."

Tap.

It was a very final sounding tap.

Sighing, Seth picked himself up and looked around for his clothes. They weren't there. 'Gates. He'd sent them with Erk to be cleaned before morning. He tugged one of the sheets off the bed and wrapped it around his waist. It'd have to do. Anyway, it was probably Steep, and she wouldn't care.

He slouched over to the door and hauled it open.

"What?"

An old vixen was standing there holding a piece of string. She eyed him coldly.

"Seth Devonshire?" she asked.

"Lord Seth Devonshire, yes," he said. "What of it?"

She handed him the string. "I regret to inform you that Lady Alissa Wright died this afternoon in a skirmish with one of your General's regiments. Drua's I believe. Before she left for Dark Forest though she told me to make a delivery to you."

Seth squinted in puzzlement and he rubbed his eyes. "Alissa's dead?"

"Yes, Mr. Devonshire, and she asked that I give you this."

"A piece of string?"

Rolling her eyes, the vixen stepped aside, revealing the smaller cloaked figure. A sudden rock of dread landed in Seth's stomach and began sending cold tendrils of terror up his spine.

"It's not…" he began as the vixen pulled the smaller figures hood off.

A tiny marten face stared up at him with sleepy brown eyes. One paw was stuck firmly in his mouth, and the other was lifted slightly where the other end of the string was tied around his wrist.

"She also asked that I give you this." The fox handed him a folded note. "Goodnight, Mr. Devonshire." she said coldly. "I _do_ hope you sleep well."

"I… no! Wait! There must be some mistake! Stop! I command you!"

Seth's shouts went unheeded as the vixen pulled her hood up around her face and vanished down the stairs. He started to run after her and remembered he was in a sheet. He stopped, his mouth hanging open in shock as his gaze slowly returned to the kit. It blinked at him.

"Em," he said.

No response. He tugged on the string. The kit followed him back into his room without protest. Then upon spying the bed, trotted over to it, climbed in, curled up, and closed his eyes.

"No," Seth protested. "No! That's _my_ bed, you can sleep on the floor or something until whoever you belong to comes to claim you."

The kit opened one eye to look at him, then closed it, and with a little sigh, fell asleep. Seth gingerly found a chair and sat down. He must be dreaming. Why on earth would Alissa send him a random kit? It had to be a random kit. She'd certainly never had one… had she?

He looked down at the note he was still clenching. Forcing his paw open, he unfolded it slowly. It ran thus:

_Seth,_

I'm sorry for the abruptness of your meeting with your son. With time so short I have no alternative. His name is Keinruf, after his great grandfather. He's two seasons old and he's allergic to silk and strawberries. Don't let him suck his paw, and his nap is at one. If you think this is a joke, remember our weekend together. I assure you, he's yours.  
I have to go now, my time's almost up.

-Alissa Wright

Seth read the note twice. Then he read it twice more. It _couldn't_ be true.

He stared at the sleeping kit for a long moment, then standing up so fast his chair fell over, he dashed to the door, down the hall and burst into Steeps room.

"Captain!" he yelled. "Captain! Wake up, his name is Keinruf and he's allergic to strawberries and I just _know_ he's going to wet the bed… Ye fates, that's a frill... er... yellow nightgown!"

The weasel sat up in bed and slowly pulled a wooden… something, out of her mouth. "Are you allergic to yellow, Devonshire?"

Seth's mouth opened and closed several times then a sort of strangled, "no." came out.

She smiled oddly at him. "Then what's wrong?"

"I have a… a.. I have a son! A kit! It's two! It's sleeping in my bed!"

"That's nice, did you see a duck go by?"

"Captain!" Seth shouted. "This is important!"

"So is the duck. It has my beret. Where's your uniform?"

Seth looked down. He was still wearing his sheet. "Erk took my clothes," he said and grabbed her wrist. "But that's not important! There's a kit! Named Keinruf!"

He pulled her out of bed and out the door. She stumbled after him sleepily.

"Do we have to do this _now_? Sissy and I were just about to find the pot of gold..."

Seth dragged her into his room. "Look!" he said pointing at the sleeping kit.

She blinked at it sleepily. "Cute. I guess. Have you seen the duck? I need to finish chasing it..."

Seth stared at her. She stared back with a blank expression. He slapped her.

"Captain! Wake up!"

Steep rubbed at her cheek and looked up towards the roof. Then, abruptly, her expression changed and her head snapped around to glare at Seth.

"Mmrf. Lieutenant, if you strike me again I will have you court-martialed! What in bloody Hellgates is your problem?"

Seth grabbed her chin and pointed her gaze towards the bed.

"Meet Keinruf Wright Devonshire,"

There was dead silence in the room for a minute and a half. Then she blinked.

"Not dreaming, right... alright, _who_?"

Someone pushed the door open with a creak, and Seth looked over to see Pip hop in, a night cap with a fuzzy tassle hanging precariously off his head.

"Captain," he said sleepily, "you better not be killing any more civilians..." He trailed off at the sight of the marten kit curled up asleep. With flickers of dismay and something akin to dread he looked back and forth between Seth and the kit.

"Please tell me I'm dreaming. There's _two_ of him?"

"There better have been something odd in that wine," Steep mumbled. "If this is real, I'm going to smack one of you with a chair in a minute."

Seth focused on the bird. "Pip," he said solemnly, "meet Keinruf."

His voice faded and his shoulders sagged. He handed the note Alissa had left him to Priscilla, picked up the fallen chair, and slumped into it as Steep read the note.

After what seemed like forever she spoke.

"Devonshire, I have to admit. It takes a special kind of beast to, ah, _know_ someone from halfway across the world."

Seth threw his paws up in the air. "Is that all you can say? Tell me what to _do_ with it! Should I drown it? Keep it? Give it away?"

"'Him', Devonshire, not 'it'," Steep said sitting,down on the bed next to the kit.

"Give it away!" Pip said loudly. "It's young enough, perhaps we can save it from becoming an utter prat!"

"Shut up, Pip," Seth growled. "I didn't ask you."

On the bed Keinruf made what one can only describe as a 'cute noise,' and turned over.

"It's... difficult," Steep said slowly, "having a relationship like this. You're over here, they're over there. Doesn't do anybeast any good."

Seth blinked at her. "What in 'gates are you talking about?"

Steep eyed him. "You know. Sadie? What will she think?"

Seth stared at her. "How do _you_ know about Sadie?" he demanded.

"Letter censoring."

The marten took a deep shuddering breath. "Captain?" he asked. "How long until the march to Amarone?"

Steep eyed the clock on the wall. "In about three, maybe four hours. Buggerit. Why?"

"Because Captain," Seth said shakily, "it's vitally important that we get raving drunk immediately."

Steep thought about it for a few seconds. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it is."


	48. Whisky for my weasels

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 47. ****Whisky for my Weasels, Tinge for my Plovers**

_by Pleasantrie  
_

The Vixen's Claw, if it were in a slightly more respectable area of town, might call itself a "gentlebeast's club". It might have served wine and brandy. It might have offered light entertainment and cigars to its clientele. The clientele might have made all the agreements that have to be made in order to make the pustule known as Bully Harbour keep throbbing and thriving.

A mere block, and that might have been the fate of The Vixen's Claw.

Instead, the seats were a pale imitation of real velvet – long since faded by the weight and sweat of unwashed masses. The carpeting was worn down in spots to showing the timbers beneath. The air reeked of liquor and sin. The entertainment was anything but subdued. As for the clientele...

Pip hopped through the front door a step behind Steep. When she moved to the side, toward the bar, he got a good eyeful of the establishment. _My first time..._

Despite the rugged interior, Pip's eyes were wide as saucers as he took in the sights that surrounded him. The bar was polished marble to him. The light came from chandeliers. The clientele were still, sadly, the same soldiers he'd been cooped up with for months. The ladies, though...

"Hey there, handsome," one cooed at Seth and sauntered back to the bar, a tray perched in her paw.

"Hey there yourself, darling, why don't - Hey!" Before the marten could finish taking his second step after her, Steep had returned and snagged him by an ear.

"I've got us a booth and drinks coming. You can take in the sights later, Devonshire. Pip!"

Her voice caused the plover to jump. "Ma'am! That is..." He clamped his beak shut and scuttled to their table, hopping in next to the kit.

He didn't trust it. It kept looking at him in a very interested fashion. _I hope they're not born with all those teeth..._

As if the brat could read his mind, it grinned.™ A toothy grin.™

Pip shuddered and looked about at his companions. They all looked as dour as he felt. It took only a moment for Seth to perk up, however.

"A bottle of "Intestinal Siege" Odde Tinge and three glasses..." The waitress gave a small wink to Seth. _Was he... waggling his brows at her?_

"And a glass of crushed pineapple for the squirt there. And sorry, dear." She leaned over and chucked Seth under the chin. "I prefer my lads without little baggage wandering about."

"I didn't _ask_ for it," Seth grumbled, "I could drown it if you like."

"Stow it, Devonshire. Here." Steep poured out the greenish-blue liquid and passed around the glasses. "Less talk, more drink."

Pip moved forward and gave a cautious sniff.

The fumes began a small insurgency in his sinuses, setting up a beachhead.

The bird sneezed hard, his eyes already watering. The looks from his table-mates sent a hot flush into his cheeks. _Disgust! Contempt! The way they're looking at me, I'd better..._

He took a deep breath, then dipped his entire beak into the glass and began to slurp.

The insurgents swept forward, weapons bristling. Soon his entire nose and throat were conquered by the fiery interlopers. Then his stomach. It was putting up a fight, to be sure, but the defenses weren't prepared for this level of barbarism.

The tip of his beak seemed to sizzle as Pip reached the bottom of the glass, a small puddle out of reach. With a squawk, the bird half-opened his beak and tipped his head back. The last of the liquid splashed down his throat.

A very small voice seemed to materialize out of his left ear. _You know... another would be nice. That minty taste almost drowns out the screaming pain of your throat being boiled away._

"His eyes have gone all crossed, Captain."

"That usually happens the first time."

He knew these beasts. He knew he knew them, but something was not right. They were too yellow.

"Another." His own voice seemed a tinny croak.

The enemy forces took a moment to regroup in his gut.

The glass before him went from clear to green. _Something turned it green, I think... but..._

"Never been out with th' lads, before..." Pip mumbled at his glass, his eyes straying to his table-mates. "Never killed nothin' either. 'S a bad place, here."

"The lads?" Seth seemed to find this funny.

Pip downed the second glass much like the first: insert beak, spread it, tip it back. If he was going to drown out that awful sound of that rat falling, it would take more than two glasses.

There was much cheering in his stomach as reinforcements arrived. The conquering horde then split. Some marched to his liver and began a fierce razing campaign, destroying everything in sight. The other marched straight up his neck and into his head. Once it arrived, it began to systematically disassemble--

"Now look at him, he's going over to that waitress."

_Hey, gorgeous... what're you doing here? I thought you were still back home._

"He's... trying to woo one of the vixens?"

_You've got the most striking eyes. Have I ever told you that?_

"No, just her costume. They _are_ rather fetching feathers, I'd say."

_Preen you? Here? Well... you know I hate saying no._

"Shouldn't you cover his eyes?"

_All right, all right! I'll leave you be, Maeve! Just let me go get another drink._

"It's a learning experience, Steep. Good for the boy to see what happens if you're a lightweight."

_What's that tall lass doin' at my table?_

"Well, then tell him to feast his eyes on _this_!"

~~~~~~~~

He was in an alley, he knew that much. It smelled like birds. _Birds? Where are we?_

"See, Pippen..." Seth's voice was a deep slur in his ear. "See, you need one o' them uniforms."

Pip tried to nod. His mind refused – it was still rebuilding from the assault earlier. It allowed a weak squawk as a reply.

"Yeah..." Steep's voice was clearer, but she had that manic tone, again -- the three-hours-to-dawn-but-still-wide-awake voice. "All we gotta do is catch one asleep."

"Or out here."

"Or that."

Pip looked between the two, then glanced at the window above him. "Ah coo'fly?"

"I don't think that's a good idea, Pip."

His wings moved, but they seemed out of synch. _As long as I move 'em, though, I should be fine._

He took a hop, spiraled in midair, then landed in a pile of rubbish.

The rubbish smell took one look at his ravaged nostrils and sought easier victims.

"Ha! He looked like you dancing, Captain."

"You... will never, _ever_ mention that again! Now, kick him, Devonshire. And spawn."

Two sharp blows and two soft nudges brought Pip to the brink of understandability. "'M fine!"

"Hold off a moment." Steep picked him up and peered down into his eyes.

He peered right back. "Uniform. Birds... birds... gulls?"

"Exactly so."

"The spiky hat? Scarf? _The goggles?_" There was naked excitement in the plover's voice.

"Even the goggles." She set Pip down.

"What are we waiting for, then?" Pip swayed, but stayed in place. "Let's get in there."

~~~~~~

"And the healer said this would help?" Lock's voice cut through the night air as he stood out on the front stoop of the Southern Army's headquarters.

"Yes, sir," Major Darcy replied. "Night air is apparently good for the lungs."

Three and a half shadows moved along the street in front of him. Two were snickering, one had a bag, and the half was toddling along in the rear.

Lock gave a nod to Darcy. The rat focused the lantern's beam on the group.

Steep froze as she was illuminated, her feather boa still rustling in the slight wind. The sack she was holding kept a constant, indignant squawking. It wriggled vigorously.

Seth was snickering at Pip.

Pip was trying to adjust all three pieces of his newfound uniform at once. The goggles kept slipping around his neck. The helmet was too big and kept falling to one side or over his eyes. The scarf was too long and kept tripping him up.

Keinruf gave a yawn. Either it was well past his bedtime or he had already inherited his father's well-honed noble's boredom with the world.

"Captain Steep. Lieutenant Devonshire. Cabin Bird Pleasantrie." Lock acknowledged them with some hesitation and a healthy dose of incredulity. "If you are in any fit condition to reply, what exactly are you doing?"

Steep glanced back at the group, then at the sack, then at her commander. "Sabotaging enemy lines of communication, sir?"

Lock blinked twice, then turned to the rat at his side. "I... don't think the night air therapy is working, Major Darcy. Remind the healers not to add wormwood to my tea. It's making me see things."

"But sir, there isn't any--"

A look from Lock cut him off.

"Yes, sir. No wormwood, sir."

Lock heaved a sigh as the last snippets of dialogue from outside followed him into the building.

"Think he bought it?"

"Who cares. You look like a _fool_, Pip."

"Says you, Devonshire. I'm rather fierce and fetching, if I may say so--"

"Shut up, you two! Come on..."


	49. Jib and Jab

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 48. ****Jib and Jab  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

_Never understood why Captain Percy, may the Fates rest his soul, was so tough on ol' Krill. In my view, he is a very capable, straight-tailed bosun, scampering to and fro over the deck to any task that needs supervision, and being a generally productive beastie. Just tends to have little panic attacks at times whenever dealing with certain crewbeasties. It's taken more than a few buckets of cold sea water to get him to his senses. When asked about the issue he ends up putting the bucket on his head and babbling about females. I've explained to him that females aren't really that bad, they are just less or more prone to bite beasts depending on the season. _

Wazzock stared at Kriley a long while. He didn't know the last time that he'd called the rat Kriley, but as he looked at the fellow, doused in shadows – shadows made any creature look a dash more dignified – Wazzock knew it was about time that he used the proper title. "That's a nibble forward of you, Mister Kriley. What brings it on?"

"Are you going to give me the position or not?"

"No need to get your tail in a knot. Just curious is all. Your captain has the right to inquire after your intentions, Mister Kriley."

"Captain Wazzock, I've been on your crew for enough seasons for you to know I'm completely capable of being a first mate."

"Oh, I know that," Wazzock said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Then... why...?"

"That question'll only lead t'a headache, Lord Clover," Gloria put in, tapping her footpaw in a way that indicated impatience. "Move along."

"Mister Kriley," Wazzock said, trying to hit a tone his mum used to use when saying something profound... or when describing how to properly cook whale meat, "you underestimate the value I put on the position of bosun. The bosun is the chap who juggles the responsibility of keeping the ship afloat while keeping the morale afloat at the same time. A bosun is the bridge between the upper leadership and the crewbeasts. You have been a highly capable bosun, and I really didn't want to lose your expertise. If you're certain you want the position..."

"I do."

"Right. You had it once I started calling you 'Mister Kriley,' Krill. Co-first-mate to start, of course. Hate to disappoint Mister Soriss, you see. Heard he's been doing a smashing job in my absence, including cooking some grand meals. I had some leftovers. They were quite delectable, wouldn't you say Mister Kriley? Or should I call you Mister Clover. But then it sounds like I ought to be nibbling on your shoulder. Clover has flavor, you see..."

"Oh, for all the four seasons!" Gloria groaned. "Lord Clover. The message. _Now._"

"Ah, you're still the dynamic lass I remember, Miss Gloria. Always ready to dash forth into the next adventure. Indeed, Mister Kriley, if you find your promotion is satisfactory, carry on."

Kriley rubbed his forehead with one paw and handed over the message with the other.

Wazzock found it amazing how a note could spur reaction. Just words on a page revealing a fact that made the rules change into something altogether unpredictable and intriguing. Before he knew it, the rat found himself standing with a lizard and a pine marten on either side – the lizard had the most amazing shade of blue tongue, which flickered into the cool, lantern-lit air – and two stoats across the table from him. The Fogey Commissioner, Kips, drew a claw across the map laid on the table.

"Zo, you are zaying that it appearz that the Imperial Navy is on itz way?"

"Aye. Or so the note implies. The point is, since _we_ have it, General Lock doesn't."

The conversation carried on, tactics being parried back and forth. It made Wazzock be glad he was made an officer on the sea rather than on the land. On the sea, a creature fought against the sea using the beasts they were dealt, on land, however, a creature usually had to fight the wakes of actual beasts of ill repute.

"...Amarone..."

Wazzock heard the word whistle by from the pine marten, the Captain of the Wotfers, Fredrick Wright.

"Oh! That's where the weapon is."

All the creatures present turned to Wazzock, who chewed on a claw.

"Ye didn't mention ye knew where the weapon was, Cap'n Pike," Gloria said, eyes narrowed. Wazzock thought that added a certain flair to Gloria's demeanor, but decided against commenting upon it at that time.

"Commander Switch mentioned the place. Information was a little disjointed at the time. You should hear his dialect. I think it's from over the Western Sea or something...."

"Why did ye not mention this earlier, Captain?" Gloria hissed.

"Distracted by that building falling down about my ears, you see. But, happens to the best of us. No excuse on my part."

"Commander Zwitch?"

"Yes. He's the chap I met inside the Ministry of Innovations building. We were chatting about a weapon of some sort. Let me retrieve him. I also want to check on the crew. I left them floundering for a tide and I want to give them a morale boost. Have any grog at paw, Rusty?"

Gloria growled.

"Thought not. Ah, well, I'll make due. Come Mister Kriley."

He paused at the door at the sight of a gull picking at its plumage. He scampered back to the table, taking a quill and then eyeing the map. "You chaps won't be needing this bit on the edge here that says 'Here There Be Toothaches' on the sea, eh? I just need to throw a note to my co-first-mate, Mister Soriss, you see. Thank you." He carefully ripped the corner off the map and scampered back to the gull, jotting a note down on the crinkly paper. He heard Gloria saying something with her colorful language. Somebeast must have done something to tweak her, Wazzock figured as he placed the note on the gull and sent it off, a stale cracker in its beak.

"Hopefully that birdie lass shall find our missing reptile," Wazzock said to Kriley.

"How is it supposed to...? Never mind." Kriley sighed.

"Do you have a headache, Mr. Kriley? You keep rubbing your head as of late. You know, there're pressure points to solve that matter of thing. I could show you if you wish."

"No! I mean, that's quite all right, Captain Wazzock."

"This is about Saltlick's eye, isn't it? That all turned out all right. He looks quite dashing with that eyepatch and he certainly doesn't twitch much anymore."

"Not in front of you, perhaps."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Wazzock wanted to pursue the mystery of unsaid things, but then he realized if he was going to make a practice of figuring out what things were left unsaid in mid-thought to him, he would have to take a season of leave to make a full blown quest, including many interrogations over tea. Miss Gloria would have some nice advice if he did so.

They soldiered forth through the dark to where the _Stormchaser_ crew meandered around a fire thrown together in one of the Unsmudgable lounges. They all looked a few knots further down the Coast of Downtroddenness as far as Wazzock could tell. He climbed up onto a chair and removed his hat – thanking the Fates that he hadn't lost it yet; it had all manner of uses when trying to give emphasis to a situation.

"I'm sorry for leaving you in a lurch, chaps. But I'm certain that Mister Soriss looked after your well beings as well as he could."

Noncommittal noises met the statement.

"For certain, I am sincerely sorry for being away, and any rumors of treachery or traitorship on the part of your captain you may have heard are quite exaggerated."

"We never 'eard any rumors like that," a ferret piped up.

"Oh, well. Grog!"

Before any cheer could rise up, a voice of dissension rose. "It's funny, Cap'n, that we keep havin' grog mentioned an' yet we ain't seen no actual grog."

Jibfang stepped forward, a certain gleam in the weasel's eyes as he did so. Wazzock didn't like the gleam. It caused some little feeling inside to click, making him either want to run away or bite the weasel on the throat.

"It's war, Mister Jib. I expect that the promise of grog is fermenting until just the right moment when our esteemed crew shall be properly rewarded."

"What if some o' us want t'be rewarded now?"

"Oh, thank you for reminding me, Mister Jib. I have an announcement to make. The time is come that a beast has been rewarded for their hard work and loyalty to the crew. And though I've heard great things about Mister Soriss's work while I've been gone, I believe..."

"Excuse me, Captain Pike."

Wazzock turned to find a gull perched next to him on another chair. The same gull, in fact, that he'd sent with the message to Soriss.

"Yes, miss?"

"Returning message to sender."

"Why so, miss?"

"Corpses don't pay fees."

Wazzock lowered his voice to a whisper. "You're saying Mister Soriss is dead."

"The lizard? Yes. May I have another cracker?"

"Good riddance," Jibfang growled, though under his breath, Wazzock could just catch the edges of "'bout bloody time."

Wazzock obliged the gull's request before turning back to the crew. He put his hat on and breathed deeply.

He couldn't think of proper words. He'd wanted to commend Mister Soriss. He'd wanted to congratulate him on his responsibility. He'd wanted to give him advice. He'd wanted to ask if a lizard's tail actually came off when in a rough situation. He'd wanted to try another of those cricket scones. Was this his fault? Promoting Soriss, that was. Had he done something wrong? But he needed to move on. He needed to lead the crew through this grim situation. He needed to...

"So, who's the first mate now? The gull?" Jibfang asked.

"No. Mister Kriley is the new First Mate, Jib."

"'Ellgates!" Jib snarled. "Blast ye, Cap'n. I deserve that promotion an' yew know it. I..."

"Mister Jib. I need to speak with you in private. Now."

"Captain Wazzock, I don't think you should go alone with him," Kriley whispered in his ear.

"It is my responsibility as a captain to do so, Mister Kriley."

Wazzock tipped his hat to Kriley and followed where Jibfang had stalked out into the corridor. He took deep even breaths. At the end of the corridor, he turned to the second mate, who glared at him, the glint in the weasel's eyes turned to a full blown fire.

"You have the freedom to state your opinion, Mister Jib."

"Don't play cute with me, yew flea-ridden, mongrel-fied, mange-tailed rodent. I'm tired o' this rubbish."

"And what rubbish might that be?"

"The fact yer a cap'n, fer one. The fact yer so addlebrained that ye refuse t'use logical thought. I've deserved the first mate position since the moment yew set paw on that ship as a grimy-hided swab-beast. Considerin' yer commission, I should have been promoted t'blasted Emperor by now!"

"That is your opinion and you are quite welcome to have it, Mister Jib."

Jib came up fast. No warning, no yell, just cold fury barreling at Wazzock.

The rat captain used a neat punch to the sternum, then another across the jaw, then a booted kick to the nethers. Jibfang collapsed to the ground, wheezing. Wazzock noted how a weasel body could contort when put into pain. He knelt to his haunches. "That's one thing I got a bit from my pa growing up, I guess. When you're lifting fish bigger than yourself as a young rat, it tends to give you a bit of strength, you see... And a fine reaction time since they are being thrown at you. Catching a swordfish carcass is a feat, indeed! But that's not the point, Jib. The point is that that all sounds a bit like insubordination. Or as rather 'mutiny,' in ship terms."

Wazzock lowered himself to Jibfang in his fetal position, to whisper in his ear, "If that is mutiny I sense, I must warn you, I know what mutiny is, Jib, and if I dare hear, smell, or taste a dash of it coming from your being, I shall give you over to Miss Gloria for her flavor of punishment. I know on a first paw basis of her talents in that sector. I shall recommend the method with the chains and the spoon. I think she may have perfected that one without killing beasts now. Or so she said over tea a few seasons back when I asked. Understand, Mister Jib?"

Jibfang whimpered.

"Very good, Mister Jib. Hopefully you shall join us after you have collected your thoughts."

Wazzock walked out of the darkness of the corridor, back to his crew. He flashed a good natured smile. "So, chaps, I'm leaving Mister Kriley in charge briefly. Just going to bring Commander Switch over to meet with Miss Gloria. I shall be back soon. Where is Commander Switch?"

The rodent came forward and saluted. "Consectetur adipiscing elit."

"What was that, Switch?"

The rat look confused, then tried speaking again. "Maecenas elementum, nibh vel dapibus scelerisque?"

"Oh. Family dialect? Are you stuck?"

Switch nodded, rubbing at an ear. "Arcu."

"Miss Gloria may be a little tweaked by this development. You can still write, correct?"

Switch wordlessly handed over a piece of paper. It said, _Vivamus viverra vulputate neque, ut cursus augue viverra quis._

"I think we need to get some tea before we meet again with Miss Gloria."

Unfortunately, tea wasn't to be found, and the meeting with Gloria went about as expected.

"What d'ye ken about this weapon?"

"Praesent ac justo sed orci vulputate blandit sit amet ac leo."

"D'ye have any idea what it does?"

"Cras ac arcu ut risus elementum viverra nec quis mi."

"I might be goin' out on a limb here, but I think he's talkin' gibberish," Wright commented.

Instead of glaring daggers at the marten, Gloria threw a real one, which Wright ducked to avoid.

"Perhapz torture will loosen his tongue," Kips suggested.

"Or at least get it to say something sensible," the Blademaster of the Unsmudgables, Regi Ruston, grumbled.

"Ooo! What about that thing with the marbles?" Wazzock asked. He really didn't think torture was a good thing for Switch, but the chance to watch Gloria in her element was always an intriguing endeavor.

Gloria took the rat by the neck, but before she could begin to tighten her claws around his windpipe, Wazzock tapped her on the shoulder. "Actually, earlier, he seemed completely genial and open to speak about anything he knew. I'm certain he's trying his best. Perhaps there's an alternative method?"

"What would ye suggest, Wazzy, _charades_?"

Wazzock smiled at the nickname sneaking past. "Oh, I don't think we need to go that far, Ms. Gloria. His dialogue and prose are completely gibberish, but he might be a dab paw at illustration."

Gloria groaned. "Fine, Commander Switch. Can ye draw out what we need t'know?"

The rat appeared to consider this a moment, then nodded. A scroll and quill were brought. The faction leaders huddled in to puzzle over what was being drawn.

"Looks like a dolphin," Wright commented.

"No. Maybe a ship?" Gloria muttered. "Ye can see the mast, there."

"It appears to be some sort of abstract ode to a greater age of enlightenment," Regi explained. "We had an exhibit full of such works at the Museum a few months ago."

"I juzt zee zcribblez."

"Need to work on your imagination, Commissioner Kips. I think it's a wobeast."

"Wazzy! Ye'll not be bringing up the wobeast story, again!"

Eventually, more form came to the sketches, until a rough map appeared. There was a layout of a building, with scribbles and notes on the edges, a few discernable question and exclamation marks, little figures of stickbeasts being dismembered by phantom weapons, and an apparent skull at the destination.

"It's the Banke," Wright stated matter-of-factly. "We should go in an' have a look at the vault."

Kips flicked out his tongue. "It doezn't look anything like the Banke."

"If I'm reading this correctly," Gloria overrode them, "it's the Imperial Palace at Amarone."

"Or a strategy game. Would just need little solider figures to place on it, and a die, and..."

"Don't make me muzzle ye, Cap'n Pike."

"Duly noted. Anyways, we're already in a strategy game of sorts, wouldn't you say, Rusty? Except with a bit more blood and guts."

"A bit more something," she agreed.

"Speaking of something, that reminds me: Saw a rat in Captain Steep's party scamper into the MinoInn's office just before the building fell to pieces. Didn't quite think much of it but there was a file mentioned after the collapse. The word 'classified' might have been used in conjunction."

"Fusce a libero eros!" Switch exclaimed.

"You said _you_ were the plan," Wazzock countered.

"Maecenas!"

"Are you saying that the Southern chaps have the same information that was supposedly exclusive to you?"

"Arcu."

"Ye understand him?" Gloria inserted.

"Not a bit. Working off context clues. Impressive what whiskers can tell a beast, eh, miss?"


	50. Caught RedHanded Showing Feelings

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 49. Caught Red-Handed Showing Feelings****  
**

_by Gloria  
_

"Will, give it a little more," Sil growled. "You're going all weak."

"Like this, Miss Sil?" the Unsmudgable weasel asked, repositioning himself.

"Watch it now! Not like that!"

"M-Miss Sil, this ain't gonna work fer me."

"That's not true! You can do it, Will! You just have to push harder."

"If ye say so... A'right!" He grunted, shoving upward.

"Ack! No, not there!" Sil cried.

"But I gotta do it there or it's gonna overflow!"

"Oi! Ye two!" Gloria hissed, rounding the corner and coming on the weasel and cat frozen on stepladders just below the tunnel ceiling. Their paws were above their heads and they were trying to force a tarp covered in dirt up to repair the hole Lady Akilina's aggravating arrival had caused. "Quit yer chin-wagging and get that fixed already. Should have been done hours ago, ye ken?"

"Ma'am," the Mistress of the Keys whined, "it's hard with just two, can't you help us? Everybeast else ran off."

The lady stoat raised an incredulous eyebrow, turned on her heel and stalked away.

"Shame the missus don't wanna be a part o'it," Will lamented. "I reckon that hook mighta been handy."

--- --- ---

Leaving Will and Sil to their own devices, Gloria proceeded to search the endless corridors of Unsmudgable rooms for Lord Kriley Clover. She wanted to make sure the rat was safely under claw after his surprising display of backbone earlier in the evening. The lady stoat had never pegged the young duke for a sneaky sort, but then, most rats were... strike that, most _vermin_ were sneaky. He just came off as so meek, what with the glasses and scarf.

Gloria eventually found him in a lounge along with the rest of the _Stormchaser_ crew. And Wazzock.

_Bother._

Before she could about face, the rat captain hailed her, raising a mug. "Oh, Ms. Gloria! Won't you come sit with us? We're toasting Mr. Soriss. I'm afraid he's gone to the Great Kitchen in Dark Forest."

"He's dead?" She blinked. Well, that was one play-thing here and gone before she could snap her claws.

"Aye. Have a drink." He stood and offered her the mug in his paws. The lady stoat sniffed it, suspicious.

"Yer waking a beastie with... tea?"

"We couldn't find the grog," a ferret grumbled. Then he said to the empty space beside him, "Well, of course, _yew_ would've found some, Fall."

"It's the best we can do for our dearly departed Mr. Soriss at the moment," Wazzock intoned.

"We've an early march in the morning, anyway," Kriley put in, then adjusted his spectacles and frowned. "What would we do with a lot of drunken sailors?"

Suggestions flew out fast and thick.

"Throw 'em in lock-up 'til they sober!"

"Shave their bellies wid a rusty razor!"

"Put 'em in the bilge and make 'em drink it!"

"H'yup! Early in the mornin'."

Gloria cast a wary glance at a beaming Wazzock. _Must be catching in the fleas._ She edged away from him none-too-subtly and toward Kriley as the rat captain began his toast.

"To Mr. Soriss, our dear friend, cook, co-first mate..."

"A fine move ye made earlier, Lord Clover," the lady stoat murmured, sitting down on the chair Wazzock had recently vacated. "Certainly proves yer taking this matter of ranking below beasties who've never set footpaw at one of Lady Plushpaw's balls seriously."

"It has nothing to do with that," the rat snapped. "I've merited that promotion for a good while now. I apparently only made the mistake of looking like a good bosun to Captain Wazzock. I needed to do something to show him I wasn't going to remain so forever."

Gloria raised her paw and hook, and smiled in what she considered a disarming manner. "No need t'explain t'_me_, Lord Clover. I'm terrible proud of a beastie who takes the reins in a situation. But, there is one thing..."

Her hook shot out and caught in the green fabric of Kriley's scarf. She used it to drag him closer, delighting in his saucer-like eyes, squirming, and muffled squeaks of dismay.

"Something wrong, Ms. Gloria?" Wazzock had taken notice of the transpiring events and turned to look back at them.

"Not a'tal, Wazzy. Just admiring Lord Clover's scarf."

"Oh. It is rather nice, but I do believe you're worrying the chap."

"Ye were giving such a lovely speech, Wazzy," the stoat redirected. "Ye shouldn't leave yer audience waiting or their tea'll go cold."

"Quite right! Where was I? Ah, yes! I recall when I first met Mr. Soriss there was a cloud shaped like a..."

"Listen t'me, Lord Clover. I respect yer brains and yer spirit, but don't be thinking ye can speak yer mind when ye will about whatever ye will, aye? What happened outside Regi's office stays with ye t'the grave, or ye'll find that yer in one sooner than ye might've expected." She released him and he took a moment to collect himself before replying.

"Are you threatening a Duke of the Royal Court and an Officer of the Imperial Navy, Milady?"

Gloria's ear twitched at the title and rank. "No, Lord Clover," she whispered, "I'm threatening a little rat whose secret I ken." She reached out for the scarf again, slowly, and smirked when the first mate jerked back.

"I don't have any secrets."

Gloria's smirk widened to a toothy grin as her eyes traced the small bit of scar she could see on his neck. "Of course not, m'Lord. Just as I've no secrets either."

"...And that, my good chaps and chappesses is why we drink to Mr. Soriss!" Wazzock concluded. "Huzzah!"

"Huzzah!" Gloria joined in the toast out of habit, raising her mug, but keeping her gaze and smile only for Kriley Clover.

--- --- ---

"And so, Lady Akilina's returned to Amarone," Regi concluded as he and Gloria sat in a plush, purple room adjoined to the Smudgie library.* Most beasts had bedded down in preparation for the march to the capitol, but the stoats had opted to discuss a few of the logistics before turning in. "She wasn't terribly pleased to be going, but it seems only logical now that we know that's where we should be heading."

"Aye. Logical," the captain grumbled. "Wrinkly, ole hag."

"Gloria, you really shouldn't talk about a minister that way." The Blademaster rubbed at the wrinkles on his brow. He would wear the fur away soon if he kept up. A portrait of Regi with a smattering of bald spots on his forehead flitted through Gloria's mind and she began sniggering before she could contain herself.

"It's not a laughing matter, Gloria!" The Blademaster snarled, the edges of his lips rising to reveal tobacco-stained teeth. "I'm serious. You're far too flippant with her. She's above our political station as a minister, and our noble station as a duchess. I would have thought _you_ of all beasts would be more conscientious."

The lady stoat's features narrowed. "What's that s'posed t'mean?"

"Dear one**," her husband began, "you mind lineage more than most nannies mind their charges. I would call you a 'fanatic', but that would be insulting to any creature mildly obsessed with lineage."

"I am _not_ obsessed!" The captain glared, her ears going down and her hackles rising.

"Gloria, you were arranging marriages for our kits before they were a year old!" He shot up and Gloria matched him, placing her paw on the hilt of her sword.

"Well, excuse me for caring s'much, Regi!"

"Cared enough to send them all to the grave."

The thread of decorum holding her back snapped, and Gloria grasped her sword, sweeping it from the sheath in a low arc. Regi narrowly avoided losing the contents of his gut by jumping back and drawing his rapier. Silence set up a pleasant shop in the room as each stoat took in the opponent. Then, the Blademaster thrust forward. Gloria swatted the thin blade away and returned with a diagonal cut that Regi danced away from.

_Bother._ She'd forgotten how limber he was.

The pair exchanged blows for a solid three minutes with only the snicker-snack of metal to mark the passing moments. Finally, their blades clashed and Gloria had to use her hook to support her sword as Regi locked their hilts and began shoving her back. She grunted, baring her teeth at him, hating him a little more because he reminded her too much of Pylaris, too much of Deephart, too much of IceRain.

_Why did the _good_ kits look like him?_ she seethed, halting his push. They strained against one another, but neither budged.

"What happened to us?" Regi wondered, gritting his teeth, but beginning to relax as the fight left him like a flighty sparrow. "When did you become such an insufferable wench?"

"When ye started getting old," Gloria growled, easing off, though she kept her sword raised.

"Says the stoat who plucks the gray hairs out of her fur every morning."

The captain's mouth twitched into a wry smile, then smoothed as she rejoined, "It's Mum's fault. She started going t'gray 'round about now." With a sigh that could fill the sails of the _Stormchaser_, Gloria broke away and sheathed her weapon. The Blademaster mirrored the movement. "I'm tired of all this, too, Regi. But ye have t'understand that Pylaris isn't my-"

He held up a paw to stop her. "Let's not start this again, Gloria. I understand your position. You understand my position. We disagree, and that's enough for now. We'll deal with this more thoroughly when we don't have the Southern Army and MinoMis agents breathing down our necks."

"Aye." She nodded, glad to table the argument until the next time Regi decided to shove a stick up his own rear. Strategizing was easier when they weren't cross with each other, anyway. "So, the Wotfers and _Stormchaser_'s will be joining my guard in the march for Amarone, and ye'll be staying here in charge of the harbour, then."

"That seems the most sensible thing to do," Regi affirmed. "I wouldn't trust MAUL agents with watching over a sack of flour, let alone the whole city... And with Kips acting the moron, he can't be trusted to make proper judgments, either."

"Ye... thought he was being an idiot, too?" The lady stoat asked, blinking. The Blademaster hadn't exactly thrown in his support on the matter at the crucial moment.

"Of course!" Regi harrumphed, crossing his arms and turning up his mustachioed snout. "Told Kips as much after you ran off to collect Wazzock. Like you said, Lady Akilina has to have an angle. I've yet to determine what it is, but I-"

She interrupted by tackling him. The stoat flailed for a moment, his arms pin-wheeling and his eyes wide, before he tipped over and assumed a horizontal position on the slated floor. He scrambled for the rapier at his belt, crying, "What in Voss' name, Gloria? I thought you'd be happy!"

Gloria lay on her husband's chest for a moment, head down, trying to get the manic grin on her face under control. It wouldn't do to scare Regi any more with the way his guard had risen. She was liable to lose her other paw for that.

"I _am_ happy," the lady stoat said after a silent, ten second scuffle to keep Regi down and prevent him from gutting her. She kissed him before he could respond. "Thank ye." Another peck and a wink. "Now, then, darling, let me show ye just how happy I am..."

Sometime later, Gloria and Regi stepped apart, each buttoning and straightening his and her respective garments.

"That would have been a lot easier if you'd have just taken your hook off," the Blademaster groused, pulling a comb from his pocket and brushing out his mustache.

"Ye know I don't like t'," the lady countered. Removing the hook gave the sensation that her paw was back again... and in the process of getting hacked off. "B'sides, it makes ye have t'work for it. More fun that way, aye?"

He snorted.

"Well, then." She nodded to herself. "I'm off t'bed down with the Guard. Get the slackers up bright and early. Any last bits of advice for me, darling?"

"Don't get killed," her husband advised. "You might be pregnant."

Gloria let a half-smile tug her whiskers up – for all his faults, Regi Ruston _knew_ her. "I love ye, too."

--- --- ---

_04:00 – Sil had the decency to wake me with a cup of coffee._

04:15 – I had the decency to wake the lazy bums nearby without kicking them.

04:35 – Toiletries conducted. Mr. Jericho... or Mr. Quinn (some confusion over this Navybeast's name) reprimanded forcefully for spying on Ms. Chicory Sleet during toiletries. [Note to Self: Commend Ms. Sleet for her novel use of peppermint chews and claw-clippers. Reprimand Ms. Sleet, as well, for undue bad temper over the death of her fiancé, Mr. Buttertongue Hinkly. He really wasn't that_ useful.] Also of note: Caught Mr. Mikkel Mirkovic spying on Lord Kriley Clover... decided to let sleeping dogfoxes lie there._

04:45 – Breakfast eaten. Thankfully, Mr. Soriss had leftovers from the night before. I can't say much for his character, but he was a decent cook. I might have employed him once the war was over – if not for the food, then for the hours of entertainment a gormless scaly could provide. Shame he had to go and die.

05:30 – Supplies enough to cover a full two day's march collected. Captain Pike held up the company by insisting everybeast pack a teacup and saucer. I told him we would be taking tea in a rustic setting. This appeased him. Heading for the tunnels. [Note to Self: Ask the MinoInn about inventing a collapsible tea set.]

--- --- ---

It was past 08:00 by the time the Guard, Wotfers, and _Stormchaser_ crew saw the cheery splashes of light ahead that signaled the exit from the Unsmudgable tunnels. Pushing past a concealment screen, Gloria squinted out, sniffing and twitching her whiskers. Snowy fields greeted her eyes and a whiff of fresh Primary air froze the hairs in her nostrils.

From the distinct lack of uniformed Southerners tromping about, and the relatively undisturbed slurry by the bricked Road to Amarone, they had beat Lock's army out of Bully Harbour.

Forming marching units of five by five beasts for the road took a surprisingly short amount of time. The crew of the _Stormchaser_ lagged a bit, but between Wazzock's mathematically-inclined pep talk – "I know I can count on your chaps and chappesses to square up in prime order!" – and Kriley's prodding, they arranged themselves well enough.

Gloria directed Sil to remain by the wayside while the rest of the Vulpinsulan forces marched ahead. The Mistress of the Keys would act as a lookout for the inevitable wall of Southern green to come. The wildcat could rival a hare in running speed and endurance, so when she spotted them, she would make for Amarone. Double the amount of time it took for Sil to reach them, and that was how far behind Lock's army would be.

That was the plan, anyway, but not ten minutes from the city, they had to stop. Where the salt-laced fields bordering the road transitioned into forests dominated by old oaks, beech, and clumps of spruce and fir trees, the leading regiment froze and set up a racket about a pit of some sort dug off to the left.

"What now?" Gloria growled, shoving her way forward from the back of the lines. She'd been nipping at straggler's footpaws to ensure the most efficient use of energy in the morning.

"It's m'mate, Sarven!" a weasel Guardsbeast sobbed as she ran to the right side of the road and hid her face in her paws. "He got h-hisself runned through at the s-start of the fightin' an' – an' now!" She hiccupped, then turned and buried her runny snout in the uniform of the nearest beast. If they weren't in such a hurry to be off, Gloria might have derived some amusement from the fact that this happened to be a very nosy Fredrick Wright. As it was, the stoat directed her attention to the pit. Further exclamations sounded from the beasts nearest to the edge of the thing.

"Step aside and get back on the road, or ye'll be joining the beasties down there!" she warned. It was amazing what a few well-chosen words could do when supported by a mass grave. The Guardsbeasts scrambled to assemble themselves in their proper ranks in under three seconds. She started back toward the road herself. "Now, can we-"

"Oh, poor chaps."

_Wazzock._

Of course he would ignore her orders. Gloria's ear twitched as she stopped and spun slowly on her heel to scowl at the rat. He was crouched above the lip of the pit. One good kick would send him tumbling to an almost certainly unpleasant fate. Then again, Wazzock's definition of 'unpleasant' had yet to appear in any sane beast's dictionary.

"Wazzy," she began, trudging toward him, "I said let's be... Oh." Gloria paused, blinking down at a host of familiar – if bloodied – faces. "Had t'do something with the sorry saps' bodies, aye," the stoat reasoned, scratching her nose. At least with the wintery season they hadn't begun to smell yet.

"Mm... I suppose they'd make decent puppets, though," the Captain of the _Stormchaser_ mused.

Without reflecting on inherent ridiculousness of this statement, Gloria replied, "No. Too stiff. They wouldn't move about proper."

"Really?" The rat wriggled his snout. "What if we limbered them up a bit first? You know, stretching and bending? ...Ms. Gloria?"

The stoat had gone quiet, her eyes glazing over as an idea spread out its dark tendrils in her brain like a pernicious garden vine.

"Limber saps," Gloria muttered. "Limbs." She glanced at the forest and her maw curled up in malicious glee. "Tree limbs!"

Wazzock stroked his chin. "I don't think it would really be appropriate to replace their limbs with trees, Ms. Gloria. That's really going a bit far for what we're talking about he-"

"No, ye nitwit," the Captain of the Guard scoffed. "We put a few of these beasties in the trees above the road and rig 'em t'fall. Give those foreign fops the fright of their lives and do a bit of morale crushing while we're at it. Nyeheheh..."

The rat blinked at her for a moment, then nodded as he stood up. "That does sound a bit clever. Can we tie strings to them, though? So they look like puppets? Nothing says 'I hate morale' like puppets, you know."

"Aye..." Gloria tapped her snout, considering the request. "But there'll be no costume changes." She narrowed her eyes and poked Wazzock in the chest with her hook. "I'll not be having this turned into Lady Halb's Gardenia Tea Party."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it, Ms. Gloria! Never give a repeat performance when you can go all new, I say!"

"That's settled, then." She nodded. "First unit start..." She turned back to see everybeast within hearing range gaping at them like fish.

"What is _wrong_ with you two?" Wright ventured.

Gloria blinked, then snorted. "Aye..." She waved vaguely at the rat. "He has the stupidest ideas. I'm sure ye can relate, Wright."

"But Ms. Gloria," Wazzock said, sounding thoroughly put out, "you said-"

She whirled about and punched him, sending the rat stumbling back and into the pit. "They _are_ rather stiff," was the faint reply that wafted up from the depths.

"As I was saying," the stoat continued, "first unit, get Cap'n Pike out of there, then pick ten of yer fav'rite bodies and get them up, as well." Nobeast moved and Gloria snapped her claws impatiently. "Come along now! There's work t'be done."

_Ye'd think we were sitting down t'tea the speed they're moving at,_ she thought, rolling her eyes. Somebeasts just didn't appreciate swift, decisive action.

--- --- ---

* The secondary library, that is. The Unsmudgables had cordoned off the main library after they had caught the majority of the _Stormchaser_ crew licking the book pages. The Navybeasts _claimed_ that Gloria had told them the books used grog-based ink, but the lady stoat had firmly denied this accusation throughout the evening. Still, Regi had seen fit to ban her from the main library on principle.

** 'Dear one' was Regi's way of prefacing any blatantly insensitive or ego-bruising statement. He had once used it on Lord Arnold when the minister asked about his weight, which quickly led to a very awkward silence and the promise to never compare waist-sizes again.


	51. Pioneer to the Falls

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 50. Pioneer to the Falls****  
**

_by Kriley  
_

_Right, then._

The pit had contained ten corpses, which meant that if everybeast did their part, they would have them all hanging shortly. If the crewbeasts worked in pairs, then perhaps they'd have an even easier time of it. He opened his mouth, remembered he wasn't bosun anymore, and shut it again, fiddling anxiously with the hilt of his saber.

_Bother._ That was at least the fourth time he'd forgotten today.

When it came down to it, Kriley hadn't the least notion of what a first mate even did. A beast might imagine that a Duke in house Clover, one of the most esteemed families to be a part of the Imperial Navy, would know about that sort of thing. But Kriley had never particularly cared for the sea, and whenever he tried to think back on any "navy-ly" conversations he'd heard his father in, it all boiled down to something resembling, "Batten the boingo boingo starboard whoopsy knickers." Or something.

A random thought tip-pawed to the forefront of his mind and timidly raised a paw. _What would Nemik do?_

Kriley gnawed on his lip and furrowed his brow; the grizzled stoat would have probably ordered somebeast else to do all the work while he took a nap. But the rat suspected that, somehow, that wasn't really the right thing to do. Kriley blinked suddenly. _If I'm not the bosun, then who is?_ Now that, he thought, seemed like a good thing for a first job as first mate; find a suitable replacement for himself.

He was just glancing toward Sasha the wildcat when Wazzock called his name.

Kriley jogged toward the captain, etching a quick salute. "Hello, Captain! I've got just the-"

"Why, yes you do! I've got a bit of a seventh sense for this kind of situation, Mister Kriley, and I just know that you're the right beast for the job of helping Mister Arant up."

The first mate blinked. "Mister Arant? Who... Oh."

He frowned as his captain blithely pointed to the pit. He tried his best not to let disappointment drag his ears down, but he'd figured that, as first mate, he'd be above things like graverobbing and heavy lifting.

"Don't look so glum!" Wazzock said, giving Kriley a hefty slap on the back. "If the whiskers on your maw get anymore droopy they shall be tickling your boots. I'm certain wherever these the souls of these bodies may be, either pass the 'gates or in the Dark Forest, they are quite happy that their former homes are being made use of for the Imperium greater good."

Kriley nodded silently and followed his captain toward the ditch. _There had better not be any worms in there,_ he thought. _They make me crazy._

--

"How're ye faring with Mr. Arant's remains, Lord Clover?" Gloria asked, leering as the rat helped to haul another body upward.

Kriley blinked and twitched his snout, although it was partially from a good deal of snow in his eye. Still, he did his best not to actually look the weasel in the face as he struggled under the beast's weight. "Oh, splendidly, Milady," he responded, his tone as colorful as the trampled snow. "Would you mind lending a paw? This chap's all dead weight... pardon the expression."

"Not a'tal!" she said. "Team player, I am." Gloria stooped to pick up the rope, then paused, the leer sliding off her face. She glared at her hook as it slid smoothly off the woven fibers, then snorted and grasped the rope more firmly with her right paw. As if to distract herself from her handicap, the stoat slinked forward until she was close enough to breathe on the back of Kriley's head. "On the count of three, then, m'Lord?"

"Right." The rat grit his teeth through the pleasantries, the twitch in his eye now having nothing to do with the cold. He found that his fear of the lady stoat was, more and more, becoming tempered by a burning defiance. He would not allow her any more pleasure than strictly necessary, and so he concentrated intently on the rope in his paws as he awaited the countdown.

"One." _She had never been very nice._ "Two." _Pushing him back and down._ "Three!" Kriley jerked the rope and felt the presence behind him disappear. The rope was still taut, though. He glanced around and saw Gloria struggling on the ground. Apparently, the stoat had not been expecting the rat to use such force. She righted herself, the red blush flaming through the white fur on her cheeks and ears. "Ye don't seem t'need _my_ help, m'Lord," the captain sneered. "And Mr. Arant's high enough. Tie him off and let's be on our way."

Kriley might have won the award for most blinking in under five minutes for various reasons. He cleared his throat, a great rush of blood flushing against the white of his ears and face in kind. "O-of course." Nearly letting go of the rope in his haste to tie it, he secured the dead weasel in place and stood back. The work was very nearly done, and even he had to admit that the entire image teetered on the line between horrifying and incredibly silly. "...Balloons. Like at a festival." He said suddenly, his paws behind his back.

"Hmm?" Gloria followed his gaze toward the sky.

"I still rather prefer the image of puppets, but novel thinking, Mr. Kriley," Wazzock chipped in, startling the pair as he walked up behind them.

"Look t'me like the spirits during Costumenach Mum and Da' used t'hang outside our windows," Gloria observed, looking anywhere but at Wazzock. Presumably waiting for her blush to fade.

"Oh, I rather liked Costumenach as a rattling." Wazzock nodded. "Never did get scared to be early. Hah! Didn't have much the rest of the year, but Ma and Pa always did deliver on the Quite A Lot of Candy and Staying Up Indefinitely bit."

Kriley remained silent, although he'd always been fond of Costumenach as well. Why, the last time he'd dressed up as a... a...

The first mate shut his eyes tightly, trying to force the memories back, but they danced just out of sight. Taunting him. It was all so close that he could smell the caramelized sugar on the candied chestnuts, but why couldn't he think of what he'd dressed up as?

"Well, I didn't think that checkered pawsocks were _that_ bad," Wazzock said, raising an eyewhisker. "I'll remember not to bring them up around you in the future, Mister Kriley."

Kriley opened his eyes quickly, blushing once more. He caught Gloria's eye, and the stoat bared her teeth in a particularly nasty grin. Oh, aye. Lord Clover was allus good at pretending on Costumenach.

The rat was about to snap back a reply when Wazzock cleared his throat.

"It's absolutely splendid seeing the two of you get along so well. I would love to hear all sorts of stories, but I think the stage is set nicely, don't you?"

Both Kriley and Gloria offered grudging nods. Wazzock nodded pleasantly.

"Fancy! Now, I'd best get the crew ready to mosey!"

Gloria snorted. "'Mosey'?" She snorted. "Wazzy, yer the only daft prissy-paws cap'n who'd ask his crew, nice as ye please, t'_mosey_."

Wazzock blinked in a way that even an owl would find excessive. "Oh? What would you say, Rusty?"

The stoat waved a non-committed paw, but Kriley interrupted. "Perhaps a 'let's move out!' would suffice, Captain."

"Oh, of course." The captain grinned widely. "If only Mister Soriss was here, I'm sure he'd quite agree with you. Now, if Captain Rusty finds it all to her liking...?"

Wazzock neatly parried Gloria's violent response, his grin not faltering a bit as Kriley gawked at the pair. "Very good! Now, let's _move out!_ I say, I _do_ like the sound of that. I knew I did well to promote you, Mister Kriley."

--

The forest gave way, eventually, to rolling fields of perfect white. Kriley kept an eye on the crew, but found his attention kept dragging his eyes toward the scenery to the side of the road. The fields and trees had a skeletal solemnity that seemed almost chilling, but underneath the ominous wind was a lilting song, a sweet scent promising warm apples and soft grass to cushion a tumble down one of the small hills.

The snow-covered path passed to the side of a cozy farmhouse, its orchards napping peacefully, and the nearby stream a glassy mirror of ice. It seemed so peaceful, so _right_ that Kriley very nearly forgot that he was involved in a brutal war.

"We'll be getting close t'the Clover Estates, then, won't we, m'Lord?"

Although it made his fur stand on end, he forced himself to take a pace toward the Captain of the Guard. "Yes, although we won't be at the mansion itself yet for a good while."

It was hard enough for the rat to march calmly down the familiar road and ignore the urge to slide down one of the snow covered hills that he'd grown up around. It had been "unsightly" as a young rat, and probably even more so as a bos-first mate. But his soul ached for it. He knew upon seeing the open meadow and the tiny bridge ahead that it would be nearly unbearable. He almost wished they didn't have to get so close, knowing that he wouldn't be able to stop. He only wanted to bury himself in the soft confines of his feather bed, his favorite book at paw and covered in his beloved blanket, and not have to worry about Gloria or the war or being first mate or anything.

And yet...

C-captain! (Er, excuse me...) Captain Ruston! (Oops! Sorry, didn't mean to step on yer tail) I need.. I must... You'll never believe...!"

Gloria heaved a mighty sigh, rolling her eyes. "Sil, ye'll calm down and talk sense, or I'll have yer pretty little pelt for a new cloak, ye ken?"

"Ma'am!" The wildcat nodded, her tongue lolling. Once she had gained a semblance of normal breathing, she continued, wringing her paws in a distracted way. "As you're no doubt aware, Captain, I caught sight of the Southern Army where you left me on the road leading out of Bully Harbour. I was half an hour out when a Missertross Gull caught me up to deliver a message, ma'am. You'll never guess who it was from!"

Gloria tapped her hook against Sil's pink nose, causing the cat to flinch. "We don't have time for guessing games, Sil. Just tell me, eh?"

"R-right!" The wildcat gulped. "From Admiral Jelliko himself! H-he said he and the rest of the Fleet are engaging the peripheral forces of the Southern armada just outside of Bully Harbour. He wants us to prevent the capture of Amarone. We'd best hurry if we want to make it ahead of General Lock with time to spare to prepare a defense. He's about four hours behind. Perhaps a bit more with the... interesting exhibit in the forest back there."

The lady stoat cursed under her breath. "Not four hours b'hind. Blasted woodenleg... We've barely arrived at the edge of the Clover Estates. We'll need t'step up the march."

Kriley had been listening the entire time, eyes narrowed and paws behind his back. Suddenly, he spoke up. "That might not be the case."

It took quite a bit of energy for the rat not to quail under Gloria's icey gaze. "Pardon me, m'Lord," she snapped, "but if ye've any clever ideas, I'd love t'hear 'em!"

Tapping the hilt of his saber, Kriley nodded. "Indeed, Milady. I'm not entirely sure if it will be helpful, but perhaps it might be. Just a littler further along the path, there's a pair of hills, plateaus almost. The only way around is, at present, through the snow and a good bit of pine woods. And even then, there's Duffy Hill, about as tall as those plateaus, in the woods, so even if they try to go through there, we'd see them from atop it."

The glint in Gloria's eye had turned from murderous, to skeptical, to filled with vicious glee in the blink of an eye. "So, all we need t'do is lay claim t'the top of 'em first, aye? Like a rooftop in Marketsquare. We'll take the heights and fire down on those Southies like s'many Slurpees in a riot." She grinned. "Fine bit of information, m'Lord. Ye've a good head on yer shoulders after all. Inquiring minds were beginning t'wonder."

Kriley was about to mention that his plan had only involved checking to see how far behind the army was, but decided that this plan sounded a lot better. He nodded sagely.

"Ye'd best be leading the way, then," ... "I'm not terribly familiar with the _Clover_ Estates."

"Of course." Kriley dipped his head, and then scurried off to find Wazzock. He considered scampering for a moment; he had a feeling that would attract the captain a little more.

Once he'd found the captain, Kriley quickly explained the situation. "And we'd best hurry," he added.

"Ah, well that's certainly clever thinking," Wazzock said, "but do you remember exactly how far those hills are?"

Kriley nodded. "Of course, they're not far at all. The path goes through a bit of forest after the mansion, and once the trees clear you'll be able to see them, plain as day."

"Egg-salad!"

Kriley blinked. "Sir?"

Wazzock chortled. "Excellent. Don't they sound alike?"

"R...right, I'll... er, just be on my way, then."

They passed more snow-covered fields and the husks of several great apple trees, then past a ditch, black ice glistening against the bottom. Kriley listened intently as Gloria and Wazzock went over the battle plans, although it was mostly Gloria talking and Wazzock intervening about spinach puffs and how much he could go for one right about now and wouldn't Gloria like one, too? And that she had also been working on her upper arm strength.

The plan seemed to run somewhat thus: Wazzock would be in charge of the defense of the forest and Duffy's Hill with the assistance of the _Stormchaser_ crew and mixed Guard and Wotfers. Wright would be in charge of the top of the plateaus and would have forty archers and forty Wotfers up there defending it. Gloria, Kriley, and the remaining Wotfers, _Stormchaser_s, and Guard would be in charge of defending the Farm and the ditch that ran from the farm to the edge of the plateau.

As long as Kriley didn't have to remember it all except that one bit, he was happy.

As soon as the path entered into a copse of pine trees, Kriley ran.

He knew the others had to see him in order to actually lead properly, but at the moment, he didn't care. One thing, above all else, was at the front of the rat's mind as he practically skipepd through the snow, his heart beating wildly in his ears; he needed to be there first, before the others. He had to feel the wind tussle his ears just as he had as a ratling. He needed it with a frenzy that could have melted all the snow in the enveloping fields.

And there they were in front of him, twin plateaus gazing down upon the land like two princesses sitting upon great pedestals of stone. Disregarding all sense of dignity, the rat loped toward them, huffing and blowing, and didn't stop until he had crested the top of the right-most hill (his favourite). From there, he could see the Clover manse on the hill to his left. His paws hurt, he'd scraped his arms in a tumble or two on the way up, and the cold air stung his throat as he inhaled, but it was worth it.

Mouth open, the rat collapsed in the snow, panting. He let his footpaws dangle off the side, watching the ground below. The rat was sure that he'd be seeing Wazzock and Gloria and the others through the trees soon, but for now, everything was his. As it should be.

He curled up in his cloak and let his eyes droop...

--

"Wake up, dozypaws."

Kriley shifted. "No, thank you," he murmured. "Couldn't eat another bite."

Somebeast was poking him with something. He pawed at whatever it was, irritated. And then gasped when the something sliced a blazing path across his face.

He snapped his eyes open, and was hit by a wave of agony. Hissing the breath out, he saw a sneering Jibfang's face in his own. He reached for his own saber, but before he even touched it, the weasel's paw snaked out and Kriley howled, clutching at his face.

"How nice o'ye to go ahead of the others," Jibfang snarled, lashing out with his cutlass again. "The high 'n Mighty Lord Clover. Ye should have never taken my position away from me!"

The weasel aimed a kick at the rat, who attempted to curl up into a ball to protect himself. Jibfang laughed, a harsh croak not unlike a raven's. "Get up, ye lilly-liver! Get up!"

Kriley, seeing his enemy in a world swimming with red, rushed forward with a snarl, knocking the wind out of Jibfang as he headbutted him in the stomach. He finally unsheathed his saber, but the weasel suddenly kicked his footpaws out stiff, knocking the rat into the air.

The rat crashed to earth, and nearly rolled over the side of the plateau. With a panicked squeak, he clung doggedly to the edge, footclaws scrabbling for purchase against the side. Jibfang had recovered, however, and strode toward him.

"Won't you do me a favor an' just let go, _Milord?_" He spat. Kriley spat back, and nearly pulled himself over the edge when Jibfang slashed out again at the rat's unprotected face. The weasel giggled at the resulting yelp. It was all Kriley could do to close his eyes and try to ignore the pain, his claws digging into the cold earth.

_Ignore the pain, she said it would..._

"Oh, this will be lots of fun. If you won't let go, I'll just carve out yor 'andsome face bit by bit. May'ap I'll start wid the ears?"

He sliced, and Kriley grit his teeth, digging his claws in further. Another slash followed, and then another.

"Bloody... It ain't fun when ye don't scream." The weasel sighed, and raised a seabooted footpaw. "I'll just end this now..."

_We'll end it now, my luv._

Kriley expected it to end, this time. But, instead, there was a great "whuff!" and a thump, following by a vulpine snarl. Kriley opened his eyes with difficulty and pulled himself painfully onto solid earth, watching as Sunyl engaged Jibfang in a deadly dance, the snow underpaw thrashed a muddy red as they parried and thrust.

"Don't interfere, brushtail!" Jibfang snarled, thrusting expertly with his cutlass. The vixen gave just as good as she got, forcing the weasel toward the edge of the cliff, until she failed to parry, gasping as the blade found its way into her side. With a bark of rage, she bulled forward and shoved as hard as she could.

Jibfang tottered at the edge, paws flailing, but lost his balance and plummeted to earth, his unearthly shrieks punctuated by a sickly thud.

Kriley stood on shaky footpaws, grasping at what was left of the right side of his face with one paw. He stumbled, and Sunyl came running toward him. "Hold on, sir! I'll be ther-ah!"

The vixen slipped on a patch of ice, but before she could fall, Kriley suddenly found his paw shooting out and he caught hers before he could even think about it. For a moment, time seemed to stop, as both beasts, bloodied and exhausted, stared at the other.

"S-sir! You..."

"I don't..." Kriley gulped. He had saved his crewbeast from harm. That was all. That was it. He smiled.

Before he could stop her, the fox threw her arms around him. Their blood mingled and swarmed and surged. A wave. Drowning him. Crushing him. The limbs, the blood...

"Get off of me!" The rat squealed, and threw her to the ground. There was a harsh crack. Her eyes rolled in their sockets. He snarled, punching her in the face. He drew his paw back bloody. "This is all your fault! You... You! You did this to me!" He grabbed her by the front of the tunic and slammed her head against the ice. "I won't! Let you! Kill me again! Florina!" He punctuated every bark with a blow until each one sounded like a plank of wood hitting a rotten coconut and his paw was in too much pain to lash out anymore.

_Odd. Wasn't her name Sunyl._

Kriley looked down at the vixen's crumpled body. _Oh gatesgates no I._

He tried to speak again, but only a ragged sob made it out, and he threw himself down against the snow, the world reduced to a spinning mass of crimson.

_I should have died instead,_ he thought blearily before darkness closed in. _But I was already dead, wasn't I?_


	52. Follow the Yellow Brick Road

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 51. Follow the Yellow Brick Road****  
**

_by Lock  
_

He could feel his knee wobble after he took one step too many. Thankfully, he had been using his sword as a walking stick, and it stopped him from collapsing. Three heavy breaths later, and he felt the strength slowly return to the leg. There, perfectly fine. No problem at all. So much for Darcy's concern about this march taking too much out of him. He said he would walk alongside his army, and he had. Let that fat slug, Scott, be carted around like a feeble old stoat-wife; General Lock could take hardship as much as the next beast, of course he could.

He couldn't, however, take much more of this cursed weather.

Lock didn't like standing in the windswept countryside at the best of times. He especially didn't enjoy it when it was winter. He was personally standing in a foot of snow, and the entire Southern Army, despite its early disembarking from Bully Harbor that morning, was caught at a standstill. The fox blew into his paws, the warming effect nigh on trivial, and he settled for shoving them back into his coat pockets. The green-coated column, stretching for miles back down the road, was in similar discomfort, many of the soldiers breaking ranks to sit down. The indiscipline of such an act drove Lock mad, but there didn't seem much point in having the idlers fall back in until the General learned why they weren't moving.

"One road to Amarone…" the fox muttered through chattering teeth. "Who in their right mind thought that having only one road to the Imperial Palace was in any way convenient?" Marching an entire army down one single road was a nightmare. One hitch in the line, and the whole thing ground to a halt. It didn't make any sense, Lock thought, standing on the edge of the forest of which the road ran through. There was always the possibility of the enemy hiding in the trees in ambush, of course, but Klist had marched through earlier without any problems at all. What was holding Maxwell up? Lock wished Darcy would hurry back with the news.

He recalled Agatha Dumple's question on why he insisted on doing everything himself. Lock kicked a small rock in frustration.

_Because when I don't do everything myself,_ he replied to the mental image of the stoat, _ things such as this happen._

It had been a frustrating day from the starting point. First, General Scott had so graciously shot Lock's officers in the head by letting them stay up all night boozing, and the process of finding and then waking the captains was an adventure in itself. Second, no one seemed to have bothered reading the notice discussing the reorganization of the regiments into larger divisions to tidy the command on the march, so it took even longer getting everybeast to where they were supposed to be. And now Maxwell, for some unexplained reason, had decided to stop squarely on the road for no adequately explained reason.

The fox glared at the road as it disappeared into the cluster of trees. He _should_ have gone and seen Maxwell himself, but Major Darcy insisted that Lock should have a small rest after walking all day and being up all night.

General Lock tapped his leg with the flat of his sword. He was perfectly fine. _Sick as a salmon... pah!_ He'd show that morbidly obese weasel who was sick...

"General Lock."

A surprised twitch nearly caused Lock to be reduced to no legs at all, the sword only grazing the top of his boot as the unexpected presence of Captain Steep and Pleasantrie interrupted his leg-tapping. Regaining some composure after making sure that the weapon was under control, an irate "What?" through gritted teeth was the only response the duo received from their General.

Steep presented a small satchel, apparently unaware that spooking her commanding officer wasn't likely to make her more endearing in his books. "Considering your contact is gone and the, um, unfortunate business with his replacements being dead and an Imperium Naval Captain, I sent Pip to the Ministry of Misanthropy last night during dinner. I thought you ought to have a look at what he found."

"... nearly got killed getting them, too," the plover muttered. After a moment, he added, "Nearly got the Captain killed, too, come to mention it."

"Good," said Lock, accepting the satchel from the weasel. "If you're not in danger of getting killed, you're not doing your job correctly."

Pleasantrie seemed put out at this reaction. "It _was_ rather unpleasant, sir."

"So is discovering everybeast in your army has spent the entire night drinking when they should have been preparing for a march on the Imperial palace and then having the whole debauchery made perfectly legal by your superior."

Lock's initial reaction upon opening the satchel was that he was being presented with a frivolous token designed to improve the plover's standing in his eyes. After flipping through a few of the Smelt clippings present in the bundle, however, his intrigue grew substantially. The Primary 11, 1781 article on a possible dragon invasion was interesting, given what Lock already knew from the seized journal which Major Darcy had produced. There really was no hint within the report that anything other than a dragon had caused the damage in the Slups.

Of even greater significance, however, were the notes in the margins of the newspaper. "Investigate Southern Slups residents," one read. "Possible Grog mishap?" read another. Lock raised a brow. "And you say this came from the Ministry of Misanthropy building?"

"Yes, sir."

More handwritten letters and memos provided even greater insight. "The Minister of Innovations found dead, and I don't even know why! How can we call ourselves the Ministry of Misanthropy and not even be in on the murder of someone that prestigious? Find out if it was concerning the embezzlement rumors the Navy brought against Arbach a few years ago." The most contemporary one, dated only a few days prior to the Southern invasion of Bully Harbor, stated: "Caught Ruston's spawn out of his office again the other day. I told Baltsar that we don't need the Ministry of War getting in on our territory! And we certainly don't need the kin of that hook-pawed hussy poking around to try and find out about MAUL's own defense schemes. I hired him to sit and collect intelligence on the Southerners, not snoop for his mummy."

The Ministry of Misanthropy, infamous for its spying and knowledge of shady matters, had no inkling about Ballroom Dance or the nature of Dance Partner. There was still some element of secrecy to the South's plans.

"Hm," said Lock, as he placed the papers back into the satchel. "Very good."

Pleasantrie opened his beak to protest, then caught himself. "Really?" Steep shot the plover a disapproving look.

"Of course. This was extremely enlightening. Well done."

The plover blinked. "It's just... that's the first thing resembling a compliment you've ever said to me."

Lock managed to fit the satchel into one of the inside pockets within his coat. "Then I suggest you do more things worth complimenting in the future. Will there be anything else?"

"I have a pertinent question," said Steep. "Why aren't we moving anywhere?"

The fox sighed as he looked back into the canopy of trees overlapping the road. "A good question – the answer to which is waiting on the return of Major Darcy."

"Oh, I'm here sir."

Considering the rat's constant concern for Lock's health, he didn't seem to mind nearly giving the fox a heart attack several times over. "Will you stop that?!" Lock growled after the shock had passed.

"I've been here for two minutes!" Darcy protested. "But you were reading, and I didn't want to disturb you."

Rubbing his brow to try and ease the slowly rising headache he was experiencing, Lock took a few deep breaths and calmed himself down. "What reason did Captain Maxwell give you for standing in the middle of the road and doing nothing?"

"Well, the thing is, he's got a bit of a problem."

"Presumably. You may dispense with the tactful buildup, Major. Time is not on our side."

"Er, right. Well, somebeast has gone and hung up a bunch of dead bodies from the trees in the forest, right so they dangle over the road. Nasty looking things, too, all sprawled out and such." Pip shuddered slightly at the description. Steep did not.

"I see. And are these dead bodies magically come back to life, armed themselves, and threatening dire action if we dare walk by them?"

"I don't think so. At least, not when I was there."

"Then I have yet to give a good reason why Captain Maxwell should be stopped by bodies that have ceased to be a threat." This was ridiculous. The lizard had probably just gotten distracted by a maggot on the bodies, and was stalling for time to draw it.

"The thing is, his leading regiment, the 26th, is made up mostly of those rats from the Papashango Region – way out in the swamps, you know. Well, it's always been in their culture that you can't upset the graves or bodies of dead creatures, or else you're cursed for life. So they're refusing to move forward, because they don't want to make the dead bodies angry."

Lock's hold on his sword had grown so tense during Darcy's explanation that some of the grips on the hilt had started to cut into his paw. "Are you saying..." He had to pause, his breathing growing short with frustration. "Are you saying that my whole army, and all my plans, are currently on hold because a bunch of backwater buffoons have decided that they believe in ghost stories?"

Without much hope, Major Darcy managed to squeak meekly, "Please don't get yourself worked up, General Lock."

The rat's intuition was proven correct. "After everything else that has already gone wrong, is it _really_ so much to ask that my soldiers actually _march_?!" the fox roared. Confound it all, what did it take? Why was everyone so completely _useless_? Literally quivering with rage, Lock stomped down the road, as fast as a one-legged fox could limp. "They're afraid of dead bodies? They'll be envious of the corpses once I'm done with them!"

Major Darcy shuffled along, pleading with Lock. "Sir, please calm down. You really shouldn't be exerting yourself like this. You've been walking all day, and I doubt you rested while I was gone..."

"How can I rest when everyone and his mother are bound and determined on ruining each and every single one of my..."

What it was that everyone and his mother were ruining went unanswered, because Lock blacked out, his body unable to match the energy of his brain, crumbling to the dirt road in a heap.

~

Waking up with one's back to a tree was not an enjoyable experience, especially when there was one knot decisively drilling itself into one's shoulder. Groaning, Lock stretched his aching back, trying to find any kind of comfort in the makeshift cushion. His head hurt something fierce, and the world had an unpleasant, fuzzy look to it. The fox was depressed: he hated when his secretary was right.

Well, Lock consoled himself, he couldn't have been out that long: The sun was nearly in the exact same place it had been when he stormed into the forest. Better yet, the tree he was behind was away from the road, so no one had seen him falter. Still, it all added up to more time lost, and that was something that the General could tolerate no longer. "How long was I down this time, Major Darcy?" he mumbled, his throat oddly dry.

"About ten minutes," said a voice which was most definitely not Major Darcy.

Lock's blood ran cold, his muscles froze, his mind and heart momentarily stopped. Rather than move away from the knot in his shoulder, Lock tried to shove himself further into the tree trunk, hoping it would help him disappear. He tried desperately not to look directly at the shape he could see out of the corner of his eye, but such an attempt at sense censorship was futile... because his brain could not shut out that some beast other than Major Darcy was present while Lock had fainted. And the voice, unmistakably, belonged to one of the last creatures Lock ever wanted to be sick in front of. "Captain Steep?" he finally managed to croak out.

"I was going to make you some hot tea," said the weasel, completely unaware of the minor crisis Lock as having, "but I didn't think I could make a fire without having every soldier in the column decide to start making their own. I just managed to melt some snow into this cup and added some leaves." A mug was forced into the fox's paws, while Lock himself could only sit and gape, wide-eyed. Steep frowned worriedly. "You'll feel better if you drink it," she asserted. "I'm sorry it's not going to taste very good, though."

"When… how…" For one of the very few times in his life, Lock was unable to form a coherent sentence. Captain Steep had just been made privy to an event that _no one_ was supposed to be privy to, and she was making Lock a cup of tea as if nothing had happened.

Thankfully, Major Darcy appeared from behind the tree to save Lock from further awkwardness. "Oh, good, you're awake, sir!" the rat greeted cheerfully, apparently unaware that he had forgotten one of his main jobs in life was to make sure no one ever saw Lock being sick. "I just got back from seeing Captain Maxwell, and he says that if he cuts down the bodies and puts them deeper into the forest, the 26th regiment has agreed that they'll keep moving. But they want to put in a requisition for two hundred four-leafed clovers."

"Major Darcy," said Lock, voice slightly trembling, as he clawed at the tree trunk in an attempt to stand up. The rat hurried over to help the General, and found the fox's claws digging slightly harder then they needed to be into his shoulder. "Major Darcy," Lock whispered, turning so that the weasel could not see him speaking. "Why is Captain Steep here, now, watching me be helpless and unable?"

Darcy gulped. "Well, you fainted pretty quickly, sir, and I couldn't get you anywhere private in time. Captain Steep saw you go down, and looked concerned, and offered to help me get you off the road. And you're a bit too heavy for me to carry you alone, so…"

Having managed to stand up straight, Lock indicated to Darcy that he was fine, and, after brushing some dirt off his coat, gave a slight nod to Steep. "I appreciate your concern, Captain Steep, thank you. There's nothing to worry about, however. I merely tripped over a rock and hit my head."

Steep tilted her head, confused. "You'll want to get that checked out, then, sir. Are you going to drink your tea? I've got an extra cigar or two if you'd prefer..."

Wind taken out of his sails, Lock gave a disheartened, "Yes, thank you," sipping the cold beverage (which actually tasted quite nice) and limped out from his tree, feeling as small as he had the day his sergeant had told him he was too short to be a proper officer at the Academy.

Having the one-eyed Captain Klist appear in front of him, apparently out of nowhere, did not help matters. "General Lock, sir, I… ack!" The weasel was cut short by the mug of cold tea flying out of Lock's paw and splashing over the captain.

Strangely, as long as he had gained some kind of visible retribution, Lock didn't find being surprised so unbearable. "Captain Klist, my apologies. I trust your division, at least, is still moving ahead?"

The fact that Klist was refusing to make eye contact was not reassuring. "Er, not really, sir. I mean, we moved out of the forest a few hours ago… why _is_ Maxwell's division still standing here? He was supposed to be right behind me."

"It's being dealt with. Now continue."

"Well, we were moving along the road, but we ran into some trouble. See, there's this point where the road goes through two plateau-like heights…"

Lock blinked in confusion. "There was nothing like that on the map."

"I don't remember anything like that," Steep agreed. "But I've only been down this road twice before, both times in the evening..."

"I know, sir, but it's there, sure enough. And what's more, they've got somebeast firing arrows from up there. The Imperials, that is. We saw the flags, and we reckon it's the exact same group from Bully Harbor."

Steep and Pleasantrie had returned, listening to Klist talk. Thankfully for his ego, the presence of the female weasel couldn't overcome the concern with which Lock was listening to Klist's story. "You were given a whole division, Captain Klist. That's five regiments. Surely you could brush them aside?" Klist was one of the few officers in the Southern Army that Lock actually respected, and to hear apprehension in his voice was disconcerting.

"We tried that, but you haven't seen this place. You put some decent archers up there and give them ammunition, and you could hold that place against three times your number. Besides, whoever's up there isn't going to run without being half dead."

"And why is that?"

"Because we're certain that Gloria Ruston is up there with them, and I'm guessing she's as hard to move as she ever was."

~

Lock was disappointed in the map of the countryside Major Darcy had acquired in the Harbor. According to the parchment, the road to Amarone was straightforward, with no obstacles or hindrances in the way. It mentioned nothing about the road passing between a pair of plateau-like heights, a total lack of sub-roads to go around the obstacle, and the fact that Gloria Ruston and company, as indicated by a few banners and faint shadows milling about, were in complete control of those heights and weren't likely to let the Southern Army pass.

"How did she get ahead of us?" the General mumbled, half to himself, as he peered ahead at the landscape. It was as if someone had dug a gigantic ditch in the middle of a ridge, just so that the road would be looked down upon by whoever lived up on those heights (Lock thought he could see something of a building on the top of the left plateau, but it was difficult to say). The scattered troops of Klist's division had formed a haphazard line, stretching out to cover the length of the foreboding ridge, as far away from the heights as they could while still looking threatening. Aware that their General was watching them, a few pickets pretended to busy themselves by making snow forts to protect against attack.

"Couldn't say for sure, but they've dug in, and that's a fact," Klist explained. "We took a few arrow shots when we first ran into them, and we had to fall back all the way here just to get out of range. That one-pawed nutter of a stoat has the high ground and knows how to use it. We tried a few volleys ourselves, but we can't hit a thing. Arrows all bounced off the slope. Besides, they can hit us before my sergeants can even say 'Fire.'"

Lock watched with concern as one group of soldiers argued over whether or not placing icicles on the front of their snow wall would help or not. As far as defense went, Klist's entire division was up for grabs, spread out to try and cover the main road and its flanks, with no support and the enemy with an immediate numbers and terrain advantage. "Why hasn't she destroyed you yet?"

The weasel blinked his single eye. "Sir?"

"She's got every edge in the world right now, and she's just sitting there." Lock didn't understand. This was a stoat who burned her own docks, poisoned her own wares, blew up her own mansion, and did everything in her power to attack and destroy the Southern Army while it was in Bully Harbor. And now she was just sitting there. "I would have thought she would head to Amarone and bolster its defenses, but she's staying out in the open."

Steep shrugged. "It sort of makes sense. We can't get to Amarone without crossing the road through that pass, and as Ruston's got it blocked, she's keeping the palace safer than if they were inside it. The ground here is good for defending. She probably thinks she has our numbers, sir."

Lock blinked. He could see the faint details of the Imperial insignia fluttering on an overlarge banner atop the plateau. The wide expanse of the landscape was devoid of buildings, slums, gutters, docks, streets, and whatever else it was that Ruston was the master of. This was to be an open battle: Gloria Ruston was trying to do what General Lock had been doing for years. She was pretending she was on his level.

All that this set up needed now was a personal letter declaring: "General Lock: Please kick the living daylights out of me. Sincerely, Gloria Ruston."

Pleasantrie offered his opinion. "Do you think we could charge the heights? Or maybe just run through and hope for the best?"

Klist shook his head. "No good. The slope's too steep from this angle. We'd have to get at 'em from behind if we're going to get up there. And there's no point in trying to run it. Half of the army'd be dead before they got to the gap, and then all the archers up there would have to do is shoot straight down on our heads. Wouldn't even need to aim."

Darcy chewed his lip, looking anxiously at the foreboding plateaus ahead. "Maybe we could go around?"

"Go around?" It was only the slightest of grins which was on the fox's face, but he could not have removed it if he had wanted to. "There's only one road, the abandoning of which would mean slogging through snow and ice, and given that our map has failed us this far, I wouldn't trust it to provide us with any accurate directions to get us on the right track. All of which is inconsequential, as it so happens, because we are not only going to stay on this road, we are going destroy any obstacles in our way."  
The small group looked with some concern at their General, whose grin was only growing in is self-confident intensity.

"Sir?" was the best that Major Darcy could come up with.

"I'm not going to run away from a trumped up civil servant who thinks, because she was given control over a plethora of rejects, that she knows how to play soldier." Lock doubted she had even called for reinforcements from Amarone; it was probably the same group that he had already drubbed in Bully Harbor. "If Captain Ruston wants me to destroy her here, I will be more than obliging." The weakness of his body was forgotten, no longer important, as General Lock entered the realm where he knew that he had more power than anyone else. "Major Darcy, tell the rest of the officers to quick march their divisions to this point, and then to attend to me for further orders."

The rat muttered something about doing more running, but replied, "Yes, sir," before going off to do his task."

"Captain Klist, see to it that your regiments get some kind of cohesion about them and form something resembling a sturdy line, just in case the Imperials decide to come down. Don't dig in, as I may require your usual skirmishing abilities."

The weasel smiled eagerly. He had started out his career as a sharp shooter, and enjoyed running the skirmish line rather than grand maneuvers. "Right you are, sir."

As the weasel left to organize his forces, Lock examined the landscape more carefully. The front of the plateaus were too sheer to climb, and trying a frontal assault would result in instant death. However, on both heights, they began to slope down lengthwise the further they got from the road. The southern plateau trailed off into a mass forest of pine trees, out of the middle of which the cleft of a hill could just be spotted. To the north, the slope was anchored on no natural barrier, though what looked like a windmill and house atop a smaller hill could be faintly seen in the distance. It was a perfect way of undermining the heights, and Lock refused to believe for a second that Gloria would leave this opening unprotected. Unfortunately, a proper reconnaissance by ground troops would take a while, and with the archers on the ridge watching every move, would be extremely difficult.

Fortunately, there was an alternative method. "Cabin Bird Pleasantrie."

The plover seemed surprised that the General acknowledged him. "What's that? I mean, what's that, sir?"

"You are to fly over the enemy position and report on what their disposition is – where they are in strength, where their line ends, and any abnormalities in the terrain which may prove to our advantage. I want it accurate, and I want it detailed. Do you understand?"

Lock noticed that the bird had to look for a slight nod from Captain Steep before indicating his own understanding. The General considered taking Pleasantrie's pay out of Steep's own wages if he was going to act as her personal butler. "Yes, sir." The plover flew off.

That only left one more thing to tend to."Captain Steep."

The weasel snapped out of her own dream land. "General Lock?"

The fox sighed heavily. He hated doing this. Generals shouldn't have to give subtle pleas. "Concerning my… sudden incapacitation on the march…"

Steep raised her brows in intrigue. "Yes?"

"It's... rather important to me that General Scott never hear of it."

Somehow, the mentioning of Scott caused Steep to furrow her brow, as if it had corrupted some other thought. "I didn't think those jokes at dinner would get to a beast like you."

_A beast like me?_ What the blazes did _that_ mean? "I could care less about Scott's... General Scott's attempts at witticisms. The problem is..." He didn't know why this was so hard. Every other captain more or less knew the precarious position of his job. "The problem is, the War Department has believed for years that my susceptibility to illness makes me unfit to be a General."

To his surprise, there was no gloating expression on the weasel's face. In fact, there appeared to be something of concern. "But you win battles for them. Shouldn't that be what counts?"

The fox laughed humorlessly. "I could win one hundred wars for them, and they'd still be looking for the one moment when I fall under the weather. There's an established old-soldiers-club who resent that someone half their age dare be promoted to General for something as trivial as actually winning battles. They'd like nothing more to see me removed from my command."

"My father is probably one of them," Steep sighed. "He barely let me... Ahh, what about the other officials? The ones who aren't regular army? Don't they have a say?"

"They don't like me, either. Apparently, I'm not 'nice,' whatever that means."

"'Skillful and precise' is one definition. Don't know what they're on about, sir."

"Hm. And the one thing they all know is that I get sick easily, though they haven't been able to prove anything yet. They've all been waiting for the day when it looks like I'm too sick to command, and then they'll pounce. The mighty political axe shall fall, and mean Mr. Lock, no matter how good he was at his job, will just be an unhappy memory." His shoulders sagged, the moment of power had faded into the background, as reality reminded Lock just how weak he really was. "Cast aside like a broken rag doll. And everything I've worked for my whole life will be for nothing." He caught himself unconsciously drawing shapes in the snow with his wooden leg. "And that's why I would be very grateful if you didn't tell General Scott of my fainting spell." There was no commanding tone, no expectance of being obeyed, in his voice; an embarrassed, self-conscious, and despaired feeling had taken its place.

If Steep took any gratification of seeing the mighty General, so critical of child-like behavior, suddenly hanging his head as if being lectured by a parent, she didn't show it. "I won't, sir. I promise. It's so stupid!" she suddenly shouted, balling her paws into fists. "Every one of us has more a chance of dying in battle than having a bad spell! It's no different! Skill, devotion—that's what matters, not some ruddin' idiot's idea of..." She took a deep breath. "Sorry, sir. I won't tell."

"... Thank you." He returned his attention to the landscape, mind focusing on creating a plan of action. The illusion of power, however, was not forthcoming this time.

~

Like a white page suddenly being smeared with a few wide strokes of green paint, the snowy valley before the plateaus had become host to a mass of vermin soldiers, going through whatever personal rituals they each had prior to a battle. Some seemed nervous, others eager and bloodthirsty, yet above all else, there was a sense of confidence. Perhaps it was because they had already seen the backs of the adversaries waiting up for them ahead, and were certain of their own quality. Or perhaps it was, as one grizzled veteran stoat assured a younger rat, "I don't like him much, m'self. Gates, ye'd be hard pressed to find any beast that really likes him. But mark m'words, there ain't no beast that can fight a proper battle like One-Legged Lock, and that's a fact."

As for the single-legged General in question, he was in conference with his captains, watching as Pleasantrie drew out his findings on a piece of parchment with quill and ink provided by Darcy. Klist was absent, though he had reported back that his skirmish line was secured, and was exchanging some sniper fire on the northern flank's hill, which had indeed been confirmed as harboring both a farm and a good amount of Imperial defenders. All other captains were present and accounted for: Steep, Terion, Maxwell, Redmond, an older wildcat named Cedric Soothaus (who had missed out on any real part of the battle for Bully Harbor), and Yool, the stoat who had taken over for Captain Helmsly. Whereas most of his regiments had escaped Gloria's booby traps relatively unscathed, Helmsly himself had been crushed under a falling statue. Lock had considered laughing at the irony, but thought better of it.

"Ahem. Alright then, ladies and gentlebeasts," the plover announced, after he had finished his drawing. "We, of course, are on this road here." He indicated with a line on a clean patch of snow. "And the enemy is over here." Another line atop two shapes indicating the heights. "Now, the enemy line extends over the length of the ridge, and well past where it slopes off to ground level. Over here in the south," he said, indicating with a few triangles, "is a forest of pine trees, which starts on the ridge and grows off further into the valley. Oh, and there's a big hill, right in the centre of the woods, which is a little bit higher than those plateaus."

"Any more dead bodiez hanging from branchez?" Maxwell grumbled.

"Oh, I hope not," said Yool, wrinkling his nose. "Ghastly sort of thing to run into. Not the way I wanted to start my morning."

An annoyed glance from Lock hushed the two captains. Pleasantrie continued. "And over here to the north, the slope trails down back to ground level, linking up with a long ditch, which runs from the slope to that farm on the hill. As for the farm, which I think is an apple orchard during warmer seasons, it's not as high up as the hill in the forest, and it's right next to a big lake, which runs north and west for some time."

Lock was thankful for the news of the ditch and the lake. He hadn't been able to see them from his angle at all. "Enemy positions?"

"Well, there's actually not that many on top of the ridge guarding the road. Maybe around two score archers, and as many others to defend them, but that's it."

"That's all they need," said Terion, glancing down the road. "Beautiful ground for defense."

The plover ruffled his feathers at the interruption. "Quite. Now, I couldn't get an exact count of how many there are in that forest, what with the tree cover and all, but there's definitely something down there. And I saw some shapes on that hill as well."

"Maybe it waz more dead bodiez ztringing themselvez up."

"Oh, hush, Maxwell."

Lock scratched his chin. The hill was a tempting target. Its own height advantage undermined that of the plateau, and if he could stick Klist's snipers up there, he could clear out Gloria's own archers with ease. Of course, the forest made things difficult for maneuvering, and the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard had already shown her skill at making tight locations hard to get through. "What about over here, on the right? What does Ruston have here?" he asked, gesturing at the drawings of the ditch and farm.  
Pleasantrie coughed into his wing. "Just about everything she has. She's crammed that ditch full of spears and arrows, and the farm has been turned into a practical fort."

Captain Soothaus gave an irate snort, which turned into a sneeze by accident. "They've got a bloody trench, and they didn't even have to dig it. You can't be thinking of hitting them there," he told Lock, in a somewhat lecturing tone. "It would be just as bad as running at the plateau."

"Thank you, Captain Soothaus, the thought had occurred to me." It had also occurred to Lock that the ditch would provide a perfect path practically behind the Imperial flank on the plateau. The forces inside of the ditch were simply an obstacle to be overcome. "The enemy is entrenched in strength within the trench, it is true. But if we were to gain the farm hill, we could enjoy the same shooting gallery that the Imperials on the plateau have. We take the ditch on its flank, mow down any beast inside of it, and run a spear right into the center of Ruston's line."

Unsheathing his sword, the General used the blade to draw his own lines on the makeshift map. "Our aim is to remove the forces from the plateau and secure the road for own purposes. To do this, our attack plan is as follows: The divisions of Captains Maxwell and Steep..."

"Hm?" The female weasel snapped out of whatever delirium she was in at the mention of her name.

Deciding that berating Steep for her attention span would be detrimental, Lock ignored the interruption. "The divisions of Captains Maxwell and Steep will attack on the right, specifically the farmhouse. If we can secure that spot, we take the trench on its flank, and we find ourselves behind enemy lines in force. At the same time, the divisions of Captains Redmond and Yool are to attack the left flank through the woods, with the aim of taking that hill. It has enough of a height advantage that we can fire upon the enemy forces on the plateau. Captain Terion, you are to remain here at the foot of the road. Should we gain an advantage, you are to move forward against the heights, but not until I give the word, is that understood?"

"Perfectly."

"And just what about me?" Soothaus harrumphed, not pleased with the prospect of being left out of another battle.

"You're the strategic reserve," said Lock, with little-to-no sympathy for the cat's glory-lust.

"With all due respect, General Lock, I don't think..."

"I know you don't think, Captain Soothaus. That's why you're the strategic reserve." Feeling slightly pleased with reducing the captain to a sputtering stupor, Lock re-sheathed his sword. "Is everything understood?" A flurry of "yessirs," responded. "Then you may ready yourselves. Don't begin anything until I give the signal. Dismissed." Six salutes and exits later, Lock stood alone, his back to the slowly mobilizing green-coated troops.

It was a good plan, he knew. The fighting would be tough, especially near the ditch. He hoped Steep would actually impress him this time. Awfully decent of her to promise not to tell Scott. Lock couldn't figure out why he had her sympathy on the subject, especially after threatening her job only the day before. Well, she had Maxwell to watch her back, and he was quality. Lock could see a small barrage of arrows being exchanged between Klist's skirmishers and the farmhouse, and wondered why that was the only source of aggressive action on the field. "I wish Klist would tell me what was going on," the fox muttered aloud.

"Oh, he has, sir! I have the message right here." Darcy waited after the usual shocked jolt and irate glare from his General before he produced the slip of paper. "He just had it sent back a few minutes ago."

Grumpily snatching the note from the Major, Lock scanned the barely legible scribbles of Klist's writing. _No action down the line except for in front of farm. Holding our own. Have had sightings of a hook-pawed stoat around the farmhouse. Suspect that's why things have picked up._ A hastily added footnote affirmed: _It's definitely Ruston I've got in front of me._

"Hm." Folding the memo and placing it in his coat pocket, the flash of a grin returned to Lock's face. "Major Darcy, I shall be over on the farmhouse front if any beast requires me." He wanted to be there himself when his army crushed the poor, deluded dreams of Gloria Ruston.


	53. When You've Killed Off All the Good Help

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 52. When You've Killed Off All the Good Help****  
**

_by Gloria  
_

Gloria growled under her breath as the Southerners sniped at her forces on Applebottom's Farm without properly attacking them. The stoat had never liked this sort of fight. Battles should be quick and to the point – none of this prodding back and forth. Certainly, it made sense in a duel to test the strength of an opponent, but in an open battle? Engage the enemy properly and be done with it – shame they had too hold their position.

"Yer wasting ammunition," the stoat snarled as one of the archers she stood with near the farmhouse nocked another arrow. "Quit it!"

"Um... Ye _did_ jist order us ter fire on th'enemy, ma'am. Are ye all right?" the archer asked. She quailed under Gloria's scowl.

_No,_ the captain thought. _I'm not 'all right.' I'm _surrounded_ by idiots._

--- --- ---

_"Lord Clover..." It had taken the rest of the Vulpinsulan forces some thirty minutes to trudge along the road, through the trench between the plateaus and ascend to the heights by winding back around. "What's all this?"_

_The rat did not respond. He was sprawled on the ground with a crust of blood decorating his face and paws. Nearby lay a vixen, one of the _Stormchaser_ crew. The back of her skull was crushed and the blood had pooled to form a crude halo in the snow around her – in other words, she was dead. Very dead, in fact, and very useless in a fight._

_They had seen a creature fall from the heights as they marched up, but seeing as she couldn't do anything about such an unbalanced moron, the stoat ordered everybeast to keep marching and ignore the body of Jibfang, apparently the most unlikeable second mate in the entire Imperial Navy. A few of the crewbeasts from the _Stormchaser_ smiled brightly as they sauntered past the corpse._

_"Clover!" Forgetting decorum, Gloria stalked up to the first mate and kicked him in the side. With a groan, he came around._

_"Ms. Gloria," Wazzock began, a note of disapproval tingeing his normally carefree tone, "I don't believe that was altogether called for. Mr. Kriley looked quite comfortable in his nap."_

_"Aye," the stoat sneered. "Like that one." She jabbed her hook at the fox, and the rat captain's whiskers drooped._

_"Oh, dear," he said. "Ms. Sunyl's gone and lost her head – the important bits of it, anyway. That's... What happened, Mr. Kriley?"_

_Kriley was picking himself up, trying to clutch his face and head simultaneously – it might have been comical if Gloria wasn't annoyed with the rat being stuck in the middle of two dead bodies without a reasonable explanation for why he wasn't dead as well to save her the trouble and possible political ramifications._

_"I..." the first mate gulped, took one look at the entirety of the Vulpinsulan forces staring at him, then Sunyl, and retched._

_"Eesh!" Wright snorted. "Weak stomach."_

_"Go on, Mr. Kriley," Wazzock urged._

_"Jibfang tried to kill me," the rat explained shakily. "Sunyl managed to stop him, but then she slipped..."_

_"Over and over again by the look of it." Gloria raised an incredulous eyebrow._

_"It was an accident!" Kriley protested, tears threatening to do the blood on his whiskers a bit of good. "She didn't..."_

_Gloria held up her paw. "I have a feeling this will be taking a long old time t'sort out yerself. Long and short of it: That weasel attacked ye. The fox defended ye. Ye spooked and bashed her brains in. Cap'n Pike can court-martial ye later... or whatever it is ye Navybeasts do t'each other, aye?_

_"Wright, pick out yer archers and two score of yer Wotfers and set up here t'stop anybeast from passing. Cap'n Pike, take half yer crew and marching units 40 through 52 over t'the forest. That'll give ye 400 beasties t'defend that hill t'the death. We can't afford t'lose the high ground. The rest of ye... that includes _you_, Lord Clover, spread out across the ditch and int' the Farm. Any of ye archers who're fair climbers, mount the windmill and use it as a shooting platform. We'll not be letting General Lock have us off on our own land, eh? Right, then. _Move out!_"_

_Wazzock was right. There was something very satisfying about shouting that phrase._

_"But I..." Kriley began, his gaze drifting toward Sunyl's body._

_"But I don't care, Lord Clover," Gloria stated flatly. "Ye can get patched up in the ditch. Hmph! Would of thought ye'd be more prudent b'fore a battle m'Lord. If yer going t'fight, ye should have the decency t'win on yer own merits."_

--- --- ---

The reason for Kriley's break was obvious enough to Gloria, but that didn't stop it from being any less troublesome. He had succeeded in undermining what morale there was to be had right before a major battle. Certainly, he'd done the Imperium a favor by offing the second mate – from her discussions over tea with Wazzock directly after his commission, the weasel had been a scheming fellow with a penchant for mutiny.* But the vixen, Sunyl, had seemed to be a likeable sort – at least she could see a number of frowns and more than a few hateful glares shot at Kriley when he admitted to murdering her.

_Curse the four-eyed fop and his fears!_ Gloria liked pushing the first mate to elicit a reaction, but a vicious rage should have been directed at _her_, not some hapless fool of a vixen. _I could've done s'much more with that!_ The thought of drawing out his buried memories and watching as he went mad with terror and realization... It would have been a late Giftsgiving present!

"Captain!" The stoat twitched at the sudden intrusion on her thoughts, then looked around to see Sil saluting.

"What?"

"News from Captain Wright. The Southern Army is mobilizing properly. It looks like they're breaking apart to attack us and the forest simultaneously."

Gloria nodded. "As I thought. They've the numbers, but we've the high ground. Just let 'em try t'take it."

"I think that's what they're going to do, Captain," the wildcat replied, perplexed.

The stoat resisted the urge to slap Sil, instead saying, "Aye. Now, run along the line and tell every slinger and archer t'prepare his best shot." A grin lit her face. "Looks like we'll be getting a proper battle soon."

Sil saluted. "Oh, one other thing," the Mistress of the Keys added. "Captain Wright said that it looks like Ambassador Steep's daughter is leading part of the group headed our way."

Gloria pursed her lips as the wildcat scampered off to relay her captain's orders. "Prissy Steep, eh?" The night in her mansion not too long ago flitted through the lady stoat's mind. Why _hadn't_ the weasel killed her when the opportunity had presented itself? The captain drew her sword and considered it.

"I'll just have t'ask her when I run her thro-"

Before she could finish the thought, a strong, proud alto rang out from further down the line. Gradually, other voices joined in until what had begun as a solo became a torrent of noise churning toward the advancing Southern Army.

"_They came at us forward.  
They came at us hard.  
They came like a badger  
not minding his guard._

_We fought in the streets  
and we fought by the stream  
to keep safe our homeland -  
His Grace's regime._

_But onward they pushed  
laying claim to our sands,  
the blackguards and knaves  
of some Southern lands._

_Now, folly, 'tis true,  
to think they have won.  
These reckless young fools,  
we'll make 'em all run!_

_O'er the Vulpinsula,  
all through the towns,  
we'll chase these foul blighters -  
we'll track 'em all down._

_We'll chop off their noses  
and then just for sport,  
we'll give 'em all trials  
in Bully's fine Court._

_So now let us tell you,  
you cursed Southern spawn:  
You'll rue this cold day  
when you should've withdrawn!_"

Gloria Ruston smirked. It would seem even Kriley's little mishap couldn't keep their morale down for long. It was an old song, to be sure, but it rang true even now. She licked her hook, the taste of the cold metal quickening her pulse, but calming her thoughts.

_Two can play the soldier game, General Lock. And I won't be losing this time._

--- --- ---

* Wazzock didn't phrase it that way, but "I get the distinct impression sometimes that Mr. Jibfang would like to test out my gut as a scabbard for his sword" tended to hint at the possibility.


	54. Map of the Problematique

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 53. Map of the Problematique****  
**

_by Steep  
_

He was alive.

From the moment she'd first woken up, wrapped in that pink feather boa under Pip's wing behind the boxes of fried grasshopper rations, that was the thought that stayed in her mind, forcing her on through the morning: He was alive.

And nothing, not Devonshire and his spawn rolling off the crates and winding her, not the hangover that she could barely feel over her head's usual screaming cacophony, not Pip's worried flurry of questions,* not the frantic five-minute bath with abbreviated duck song, not being two minutes late for the initial roll-call—nothing could lessen the power of those words. _He. Was. Alive_.

The question was, where? Why hadn't he revealed himself? Surely he'd had a chance by now. Surely he didn't think Lock was going to congratulate his efforts with death! Pylaris was no fool, that was true...

_"Captain!_"

Ugh, how was she going to find him at this rate? Would he have left to Amarone for some reason, or would he be hiding out in the countryside? Why had he left his letter behind, when she'd asked him to deliver it personally? Why hadn't he sent a gull out with some sort of message? Which square had his Emperor been on, again, and did he consider her MinoMis in the corner when he'd made his last move, or had he been distracted by her Admirals closing in on his Empress?

And on that note, what was Scott going to say... But no, she couldn't let Scott find out. Agh, the wedding. It was going to be as soon as she came back from Amarone. Well, could she just stay there, maybe? No, he'd come for her. What was wrong with having it at home, where her father and uncle could attend? What a selfish oaf of a weasel, that General Scott! But then again, he sounded like he was just keeping her best interests in mind. Somebeast tells you they have a problem, the first thing—well, maybe not the first thing, but one of the things you want to do is give them a hug, and Scott couldn't very well do that without Tipson butting in and raising a stink about pre-marital argh argh _argh_.

Maybe she _should_ tell him about Lock; maybe Scott would try to argh argh _argh_, **no**!

_"Captain Steep!_"

But no, Lock didn't deserve that anymore than she deserved fighting for four years to get back in the army. Maybe it was a good thing her father wouldn't be around for the wedding, the prude! Setting her up with Scott in the first place, siccing all those healers and seers on her and then pretending nothing was wrong—oh, but something was wrong, or else why keep her at bay, why not let her back into her old regiment?

Lock was right. With the SLA on their tails and everyone's eyes on them, the army didn't want anybeast with so much as an eye tic in a position of power. Faint on the battlefield and you're done for; have to be rolled in on a wagon and you're the bloody hero of the hour. Just a shame everyone with a brain had some problem or other. Drua's panic attacks were just barely a secret from the top echelons, and Terion, well, the marten was just odd, wasn't he...

Ah, but finally! Finally someone trusted her again. Real soldiers. Real regiments! Oh, she could smile if her head wasn't splitting—stupid sunlight, how many drinks had it been? Oh Malachite, she'd danced, hadn't she, she'd gotten up and danced with the vixen and the ferret and she'd promised to send gilders or florins or whatever they wanted for the light fixtures, but she'd forgotten and what if they were going to snoop in her luggage while she was gone? Scott already had a key of his own, and he wasn't afraid to use it.

_"A word with you, Captain?_"

And where had Devonshire gone with that kit? She'd told the marten to leave him in Bully Harbour, but she could have sworn she'd seen him hauling the little wretch about, sitting him up on Llu's shoulders... A battlefield was no place for a kit! _If I see the little horror during all this, I swear I'm going to lose it. Be a _soldier_, Devonshire, not some tramp's contingency plan!_

Argh, her head. Was it always this bad, or only when she had a _real_ hangover? It didn't feel as fuzzy, usually, but it also felt a whole lot less sharp, usually. The dull ache might have been welcome to this. Fantastic grog, though, so good of the Vixen's Claw's owner to keep a hidden cellar from the MinoMis... but it hadn't been the MinoMis, had it? Word on the street was it had been Ruston's idea.

Ruston! That foul-faced, hook-limbed, tea-sipping trouser-fiend! It was hard to forget she was still around, but at the same time, Steep so dearly _wanted_ to. Everything about the stoat made her blood boil. Pylaris's brother and sister—fates. Her own mother. That's what they said, though she'd never seen it happen. So many times it played over her head on the trip back to the Southern Empire: Ruston, sword dripping, that insufferable smirk...

_"What are your orders, ma'am?_"

Ruston, throwing aside a depleted crossbow, unsheathing a dagger, going for the throat...

Ruston, yanking a halberd out, flicking the blood off, _stomping_ with a booted footpaw...

Ruston, Ruston, Ruston, with eight arms, wicked curved blades slashing in a furious blur, and her mother's screams echoing, fading, starting anew, washing through the embassy, and everything smelling of Gardenia Allure, his favourite...

Fates, was she crying? No. Just a fleck of blood in her eye.

Oh.

_"Captain Steep, what do we do? What do we do?!_"

Steep blinked.

She had her sword out. It was in serious need of some washing. So was her uniform.

The weasel glanced down and realised she was standing on top of a squirrel. She was sure she hadn't killed him, because she didn't have bow and arrows, and there were at least two sticking out of his back. Another arrow knocked her beret off. Cursing, Steep dropped to all fours and grabbed it from the mud-that-wasn't-mud.

"What's our situation?" she snapped.

"We're losing!" a ferret cried. Steep scurried nearer to him.

"Well, stop losing!"

"I don't know how!"

"That's your job from now on!"

"Who died and made _me_ Sergeant?" the ferret retorted.

"Him," Steep said, pointing at the ground. She ripped the badge off the ex-sergeant and thrust it at the ferret's chest. "Find me Pylaris! I need him to tell me what's going on!"

"Who's Pylaris?"

The ferret stared at her, his open, honest face truly perplexed.

"Pyl—Pip! I mean Pip! Find me Pip! The bird! _Find me the bird!_"

* "Should that be wobbling? What about this? How come my beak is _green_? Where'd these goggles come from? This isn't _my_ feather! What tastes like strawberries, and what smells like someone widdled on my helmet? Does anyone else hear that fizzing sound? Oh, there's my legs. I think. I don't know. Could I get a second opinion on them, anyone?"


	55. Halatafl and the Ruff Rider

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 54. Halatafl and the Ruff Rider****  
**

_by Pip  
_

_"Ah, Mr. Maplefeathers. I'm glad you could join me this afternoon." Pip hopped into the study and gave a cursory glance about at the furnishings. His eyes were naturally drawn to the table that dominated the center of the room. At it was seated an old hare, who indicated the seat across from him._

"A stool!" Pip cried out and flapped to it. "Most beasts never realize. Oh, Colonel Grettis... I'm so honored to be here--"

"None of that, sir." The old hare gave a short nod of his head. "I invited you, after all."

"Yes, sir." Pip paused. Gulped. "Why is that, sir? I mean, I ferry messages for a living..."

"Do you know what that is?" The hare nodded to the contents of the table between them.

"A board for Fox and Geese, sir. Everyone's got one."

"Care for a game?"

"Against you, sir?" Pip blinked a few times. "But... you're the head of the SLA. You were at the fire mountain, they say... how could I possibly..."

"I'll let you take Geese, if you like."

-----------

Pip decided that those goggles were much more trouble than they were worth. They kept slipping down his beak since he was smaller than a gull. So they perched on the tip of his beak, as if he were wearing a daft pair of pince-nez. With a snort, the plover dipped his beak and let the eyewear slip down around his neck. _They still look smart, though._

The bird turned North, making a beeline for the stand of trees he merely passed by earlier. There was something about them that kept niggling at the edge of his consciousness. They were too much of an unknown factor.

As he neared, Pip could make out figures creeping about between the branches. He cast a glance over his shoulder.

The Southern Army was still a good half-hour away. If he could get a quick look-see. He landed on a high branch and peered into the shady gloom.

"Well, hello there, my feathered chap. Or is it chapess? Never could be sure with you bird fellows. Or ladies. Must be confusing to you lot, too."

The voice nearly sent Pip scuttling out of his primaries. He spun his head around to find a rat sitting on the same branch as he, leaning up against the trunk. "Hwaa, huh?"

"Hmm. Seems pitched fairly low. I'll just use 'chap' for the ease of it, until you can confirm or deny, eh?" The rat flicked the brim of his hat back with a claw. "Well, you're dressed like a Gull, so I s'pose you're one of ours. Captain Wazzock Pike, at your service. Well, if you're a Gull, you're at my service, then, aye?"

Pip's beak finally caught up to his brain. His brain wasn't faring terribly well, however. "I... yes?"

"Ah, monosyllabic! You must be a bird of action then, I take it. I can respect that. Had a first mate like you. Well, neither of them were terribly wordy beasts." Wazzock rose to his paws and moved along the branch with all the agility of a high-wire artist. "You know, I envy the view you birds have. Imagine... seeing this all the time!"

Pip shrugged and kept his tone bored. "We actually spend a lot of our time on the ground. Plovers, that is."

"What good it does you, eh?" Wazzock was now standing next to Pip. "Plover's popular around these parts. Perhaps if you kept to the air a little more, you'd be less likely to grace the menu."

Pip snorted. "You look like a fit beast. Imagine pushing your entire weight off of the ground with just your arms. Now, do it sixty times each minute. For more than a minute."

"That is impressive..."

"Lifting off the ground's no holed doughroll, either."

The rat just stared ahead for a short while, his tailtip the only part of his body moving.

"No... I can't imagine that's very pleasant." He looked down at the bird. "Now, since you're a Gull – not in the technical sense, of course, but it is a job title – I suppose you've got a message for me, there."

Before Pip could argue, the rat reached a paw in and fished out a document.

The red seal had a very distinctive and damning monogram on it.

"Err... sir! That is..."

"S.A.L? Sal. Funny, I just met a gel with that name. She didn't seem the seal-bearing type. Ah well, all shapes, eh?" The rat tucked the letter away. "Now, I've got one for you. It's for Captain Ruston. She's supposed to be stationed at the farm. If you're lost, just follow the screams. Doesn't matter who's doing the screaming, usually it leads back to her."

Pip folded the rat's note and placed it in his tube. "Err... yes, sir?"

Wazzock nodded once and made for the trunk again. He paused when he got there and looked over his shoulder. "Well, hurry on, then. Can't have the sunset beating you over there, eh?"

Pip nodded and made to take off, but stopped himself short. "Captain, sir? Err... That is, the other Captain was wondering what kind of forces you have at your disposal?"

-------------

_"That... is a most unorthodox opening set of moves, Mr. Maplefeathers."_

"Thank you, sir?"

"Oh, it is a compliment. Most beasts begin with a measured creep forward, when they play the Geese."

"You can't trust that fox, Colonel. Have to strike before it gets a chance to."

"Truer words were never spoken, my avian friend."

Pip ruffled his feathers and settled onto the stool, observing the cross-shaped board. "So, sir, what do you need from me? I know this isn't just a friendly game you invited me for."

The hare snorted. "And why not?"

"Well, sir, I'm certainly not the first choice beasts select when looking for someone to share a game with." Pip shrugged. "Sometimes I wonder why the SLA wanted me in the first place."

The colonel's paw stopped halfway through his play. The hare's amber eyes shot up and leveled themselves at Pip. Entrenched behind his bushy brows, they bored into the bird. "Really, Mr. Maplefeathers? You feel out of place sometimes?"

"Well, no sir... That is..."

"You've just lost another Goose."

------------

Pip cursed under his breath as he dived down next to the stoat captain, Yool.

"Hey lads, it's that liddle birdy of Steep's! Hear what he did just last night?"

Pip hissed. "Look, fool, do you want my help or not?"

The stoat looked unfazed. "Tell me what you're going to tell me, bird. I've not got time for silliness."

"The beasts holding the trees and hill up ahead seem to be led by a Captain Wazzock. He's got--"

"Wazzy? He's still around?" One of the soldiers piped up, grinning. "I remember his ma'. Lovely li'l place in th' Slups, she 'ad..."

"Really, gentlebeasts..."

"Was it one o' _them_ establishments?"

"Ah think i'twas a tavern."

"Jus' served food and drink, mebbe?"

Pip set his beak and gave a little growl. "Look, let me just say --"

"Shaddup, bird! We're talkin' _soldier_ talk, 'ere!" The stoat accentuated his point with a thrown bottle of grog.

It went wide, shattering against a rock. Pip took one look at the stand of trees, with Wazzock's threescore – or more – beasts inside, then leveled a glare at Yool. "I only saw a dozen in there with him, at most."

Pip ignored their guffaws as he took off again, this time to keep an eye out over the main force.

--------

_Pip stared across the table at the old hare. "And what makes you think they would hire me in the first place, Colonel? I'm a bird..."_

"And you would have a woodlander do it?" Grettis asked.

"Well... I don't suppose..."

"Exactly. They trust us even less than they would a bird like you." The hare moved his piece closer to a straggling Goose.

Pip was silent for a long moment, then moved the straggler back towards his main flock. "Let's say I do agree, and I'm not, yet. How would you get me into the navy? Or the palace? Or keep me off a dinner plate, period?"

"You let me worry about the logistics, Mr. Maplefeathers. You'll need a, if you'll excuse the pun,nom de plume_."_

Pip rolled his eyes. "Well, Captain Zeb's nickname for me would work."

The hare replied with a raised brow.

"He always said I prattled on like a Duke at court. Called me Mr. Pleasantrie."

"That would, I think, do nicely." The fox closed in on the straggler, cutting him off from the rest of the reinforcements. "You left this fellow out to dry, Pleasantrie."

--------

Pip sat in one of the upper branches of the copse of trees and watched the fruits of his bad advice ripen and spoil on the ground below.

Yool's forces charged into the forest, making a beeline for the hill and the small cluster of beasts perched on it.

The first line hit a shallow ditch and cries of pain began drifting up to Pip's ears. He turned his beak and tried to shut them out. Instead, he kept his eyes on Redmond's forces, who began to creep up on the other side of the forest. The shouts and screams seemed to keep them cautious.

Pip gave a small squawk and adjusted the goggles around his neck. "It's not _my_ fault," he said to himself. "They could choose to treat me like something better than a doorstop. Like Wazzock did. Odd, that. He acted like a bird with thoughts was normal – even though I wasn't at my most loquacious."

Pip looked at the blurred reflection in the goggles. "Maplefeathers... what have you gotten yourself into? I wasn't hired for this..."

He wasn't doing a very good job of shutting out the sounds from below.

----------

_"Interesting... so you just sacrifice Geese?"_

"I've found it's easier to have a less crowded board. If the Geese trip over themselves, one or two always fall victim too early."

"And you just remove them at random?"

"Oh, no." Pip smiled. "I use them to put the Fox where I want him."

The hare harrumphed into his mustache.

"Exactly where I want him..."

---------

Redmond's forces had taken one half of the hill and were keeping the Imperium troops pinned down.

_Good enough for me._

The bird took off again and headed south across the main lines. There was little movement at the plateau – the Southern forces were trying to stay just out of range of the Imperium snipers, and largely failing. It was a stalemate.

He continued south, past a pitched battle at the Ditch – the Imperium soldiers had left the protection of the Ditch to assault an unprotected left flank. _Probably that idiot Maxwell._

The plover wheeled over the farmhouse, which barely looked habitable, so much was it fortified. There was hardly a blue uniform to be seen, however – at least not one standing. There was a sea of green about the building, instead. Pikes were leveled at every entry and the leader seemed to be waiting out the forces inside.

Pip dipped lower. _That would be... Maxwell?_

_Which meant the forces being pushed back at the ditch were..._

-------------

_"And that, Mr. Pleasantrie, is how the Summer of the Scorched Earth began. A three month-long destruction of everything that we held dear... of everything we held." Colonel Grettis shifted his piece another step closer. He was beginning to pin Pip's Geese back into one arm of the game board. There were a pair back behind the Fox, however._

Pip moved them forward gradually, as the Fox continued to try to pin him. "But sir, couldn't it all have been avoided? I know the Empire opened trade with the Vulpine Imperium lately? We don't even need months of shipping, and our farms are far superior to theirs."

The Fox diverted and moved back out to the open board. "Why trade for something when you can take it?"

A small flock of Geese moved to follow, leaving the wing they were pinned in. "I understand, sir, but the cost was high for both sides in that first month, wasn't it?"

The Fox diverted, again, and began to circle back to the wing of the board. "It was. We --" The Colonel caught himself mid-sentence and brought a paw to his whiskers. "That is, one of our lieutenants, actually took back a hamlet on the Northern shores. Destroyed an encampment and the vermin refugees that had followed the army out."

Pip glanced over to the interior of the wing, in front of the path of the marauding Fox.

He had left the pair of Geese from earlier – the two who saved his entire flock – he had left them defenseless. They moved about each other, ever-avoiding the clenching jaws of the Fox.

"You must never take your eyes off of a piece, my friend."

-----------

"The Captain!"

Pip banked from his position over the battle.

The main line of battle flowed beneath him. A gradual push from the Southern force left a slash of green in the ground, a gangrenous wound in the earth that seeped with the blood of the fallen. And there was.

_Her left flank is failing._ Pip carried a thermal until he was out of range of any stones from below. _Though I doubt any of them will be looking up, now._

The shieldbearers below broke rank into a rout. Their shields, once a wingspan-high wall of wood that held every missile and thrust at bay, now were discarded at their feet. They fell across the fallen in such numbers that they were temporary caskets.

Pip cursed under his breath and broke into a dive toward the bee's hive of activity at the rear of the unit. "Devonshire!"

A well-coiffured head spun in his direction. "What was that?"

"I said, 'Dev...'" Pip trailed off at the marten's glare. "Ugh. Lieutenant Lord Devonshire, sir."

"What is it now, Pip? I don't have time for drunken idiocy."

Pip shook his head at the comment and indicated over his shoulder with a wing. "No time for nastiness, Seth. They've broken the left flank. Your shieldbearers have left the front line and the enemy are en route --" A sling stone rattled off the helmet of an attendant to Seth's left. "-- here."

"I have it under control. _I have it under control!_" Seth strode two steps toward the flank – where a trio of Imperium vermin had broken through and were charging.

The head beast gave a bellow and leveled a spear at the Lieutenant. Seth drew his sword – a grand affair that was longer than Pip and straighter than his moral compass.

A frightened squeal caught Pip's attention. A pair of claws about his leg held his attention. A furry muzzle buried in his side trapped his attention . "Keinruf?"

Pip couldn't understand the frightened babbling of the kit below him; he didn't have to.

"It'll be all right, Ruffy. Just hold on to Pippen..." Pip kept his eyes on the melee about to unfold before him.

As the beast – a ferret – closed in on Seth, the noble stepped to one side and gave a flick with the tip of his sword. He had the usual bored, disdainful look upon his face as he sent the blade across the ferret's throat.

Only, a spear haft was in his way.

Seth growled and took a step back. He brought the sword in a broad arc across the beast's belly. Red hot – nothing – streamed out. The haft was there again, blocking his every blow.

The ferret leaned forward and sneered.

Seth gasped as the sword was pinned back against his body. It dug into his chest, dimpling the uniform.

Pip covered Keinruf's head with a wing and called out, "Seth! Go for his eyes!"

The ferret instinctively cringed and squeezed his eyes shut. Seth reached up and grabbed an ear and yanked hard.

A bellow of pain sounded. The combatants separated once more. Seth's sword tip was shaky as it leveled itself against the ferret. He darted in and brought the sword in a downward strike. Crimson flashed this time, as the weight of Seth's sword pushed aside the ferret's parry.

The beast backed off, holding its chest. "You'll pay for that, dirty Southern..."

Seth panted as he brought the blade back up. He blocked a thrust with a grunt, throwing his weight behind the parry. He almost missed blocking a second one, it took so long to recover.

_Crack!_ The spear's haft came around and connected with Seth's side. He yelped and dropped his sword. With a whimper, the officer curled into a ball cl his ribs.

"Heh... Southern prat." The ferret placed a boot on Seth's shoulder and pressed down, pinning him.

The spear came up, point aimed at the creamy throat below.

Seth 's free paw snaked out to the vermin's own boot. He drew out a knife and jammed it, sideways, into the leg above him.

The ferret shrieked and fell back, clinging to its paw.

Seth scrambled on his knees to his sword. He rose and struck twice.

The marten stood over the beast, eyes wide, chest heaving.

After a long moment, Seth turned and walked back to the bird. He brought a paw up and smoothed back his ears. "See? Under control."

Pip glanced from the fresh body to the kit under his wing, then up at Seth. "I couldn't help but notice, _sir_, that you've got Keinruf here at the front."

"Of course," Seth said, "where else am I going to put him?"

"Well, I am reporting back to the Captain..."

"So? Are you proposing we dump him with her, when he could be viewing this..." Seth paused and gulped once, surveying the battle before him. His eyes still had yet to return to their usual half-lidded expression of boredom. "...this learning experience?"

"But Devonshire, he's just a kit!" Pip protested.

That brought at least a glimmer of the Old Seth back – a sneer. "And I didn't ask for him."

Pip glanced down at the giant eyes that were staring up at him. "It's been a while since ration, though. Are you hungry, Keinruf?"

The kit nodded vehemently, his little tail sticking straight out behind him with fright.

Pip looked back to Seth. "I could take him back to get a meal. Supply lines start behind where the Captain is stationed..."

"Captain! Captain! Are you trying to show her I can't do my job by dumping the kit with her?"

Keinruf slowly turned and laid mournful eyes on his father, and despite the paw firmly stuck in his mouth, one just knew his lip was starting to droop.

"Fine!" Seth threw his paws up and glared down at the pair. "A bite and then get him back here, Pip."

Pip bobbed his head. "Of course, sir."

He then looked down at young Master Devonshire. "Want a ride, Ruffy?"

The little marten's eyes gleamed as he nodded assent.

The kit climbed onto Pip's back. The plover groaned. "Fates... what've you been eating? Sling bullets?"

Keinruf took his paw out of his mouth with a sticky 'pop' and twined his paws about the goggles' strap, then kicked the bird's sides.

Pip snorted, then broke into a trot, making his way behind the front lines towards Steep's position.

-------------

_"Wonderful, Pleasantrie. I must say, I didn't expect a game like that."_

Pip pouted. "You didn't expect to win?

A chuckle was his reply. "No, I did. But I expected to have to teach you more."

Pip forced a smile. "Thank you, sir. Now, can you tell me what you have planned?"

"In due time. We'll let you know when, but trust us to get you into the navy. Now, when you get there..." The Colonel poured two glasses of port and pushed one across the table. "We'll need you to keep an ear out for anything. Anything_. Any plan, any troop movements, any trade agreement. Anything. If you can make small changes, temper their forces, do so. This --" the hare nodded to the table. "Was a test, of sorts."_

"I passed, then?" Pip's beak was fit to burst, he was grinning so wide.

"One last thing..."

------------

"Captain Steep!" Pip was weaving through the disturbed bee's nest of officers swarming about the weasel. "Captain!"

"Pip? Pip!" She leveled a glare at the bird. "Where have you been? Those bloody woodlanders up and left to join Captain Maxwell's regiment! What in--"

Pip gave an indignant squawk as the weaselmaid hoisted him by the goggles.

"We've got a situation, here, and you're playing Ride the Ducky with infant martens? Get your beak up there and do your bloody job! You, get off him and get your bastard hide out of here."

Ruffy looked up at the draconian jill above him. His eyes went wide and he hopped off the bird's back, making for the safety of the mess tent.

"What? Ruffy? Captain, I mean, was that necess –- Ack!"

The hold on the goggles tightened. "I'm not a bloody circ—orchestra conductor like you seem to think, Pip. I'm just a Captain. And I need you to do. Your. Job."

Pip felt the blood rise to his beak. "I've /done/ my job, ma'am. Your left flank is collapsing under the assault from the ditch."

"Left? Left... Devonshire? That useless..." She relinquished her hold on the bird. "Sergeant! Get another dozen over to the ri—to the left side! Divert all archers away from the orchards!"

"Wait! Captain!" Pip moved to follow the weasel as she strode off toward the line. "Captain! Steep! The line's compromised over there! We should fall back to the farmhouse! Maxwell has it pinned down, if we regr--"

"Maxwell? Pinned down?" She whirled about and thrust a claw under Pip's beak. "_Pinned down_ is not our orders! We're supposed to be breaking through this!"

"It's fine, Captain! If we regroup, we can make another push and --"

"I'm not going to hide behind that scaly buffoon's tail! Trust a butler's son to wait paw and claw on... NNGH!" Steep clenched her eyes and brought a paw to her face. With a grunt, she thrust two claws deep into the scab between her eyes. Fresh blood began to ooze down her muzzle, staining the snow with a bright splash of crimson.

"Captain? Captain?" Pip was at her side in a moment, a wing on her shoulder.

She growled and pushed him away; her voice a hoarse hiss. "Get off me, Pip."

He fell, a mass of snow-drenched, mud-caked feathers.

She brought her gaze up to his. "We're not withdrawing. Tell the officers we're charging the ditch. If no one else is going to, _we_ need to get up that plateau and clear off those archers."

Pip watched her stalk off. "... 'Gates."

-----------

_"You can't let yourself be fooled by the fox, Pip." The hare moved to open the door. "You can't ever let your guard down."_

"Yes, sir." Pip began to hop outside, but paused in the hallway. "Sir... may I ask..."

The Colonel sighed. "It's from years away from the mountain. Like anybeast, I lost my accent from being away from it."

"No, sir." Pip shook his beak. "It's about Meave."

"We'll make sure you have something to look forward to," Grettis said.

"Thank you, sir."

"And Pleasantrie? You're always welcome back here, even if you think no one else will take you."


	56. Crimson and Clover

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 55. Crimson and Clover****  
**

_by Kriley  
_

Kriley needed a drink.

It was an odd thing, he imagined, his saber slicing through a fox's gut. But he couldn't shake it off. Fevered eyes shifted, and he absently smeared a bloody streak across his glasses with a paw. His heart pattered so like many kit's paws against his ribcage, and yet his mind was filled with one dull, throbbing desire.

At that moment, as he noticed the tide begin to turn against the other beasts in the ditch, Kriley realized something. There was no reason to be there.

He was never meant to be a sailor. He could hold his own against one beast in a fair dual, and perhaps another in a not-so-fair one, but he sure as hellgates wasn't meant to be a paw-soldier in a skirmish. All the yelling and yowling, the gurgling and guggling put him so far on edge that he'd fallen off it long ago.

But what cut the rat more than any blade ever could was that he was expendable. One slip, and that would be it. Wazzock would say some sad words, and then some other beast would take his place. Sasha, perhaps. Or maybe even Sun-_Oh. Right._

The first mate gnawed his lip until it bled, watching more of his fellows expendables keel over. It wasn't fair. Perhaps he should help them.

Kriley needed a drink.

"Well, chaps,-" it was fun to say 'chaps.' No wonder Wazzock did it so often- "Looks like things are going swimmingly. I'm, uh... just going to pop off for a bit. Important First Mate duties."

Without a backward glance, the rat scurried up the back of the ditch, slipping and scrabbling for purchase on black ice that soon became somewhat ruddy ice, and then spattered scarlet ice. A guilty twinge niggled and pulled at his tail for him to turn around and fly back to his duty, but he snuffed it. Just had to run, he thought. Just had to get home.

He had made it to the trees dividing the ditch from the plateaus when he heard a voice at his back.

"It's _you_! Fff... Mister Can't-Kiss-A-Female! Pathetic." Kriley turned just in time to parry a crippling blow, although one look into his assailant's blood-crazed eyes drained the rest of the strength from his paws.

Kriley recognized the weasel. Captain Something-or-Other. At the moment, however, she was covered in so much blood that it masked the green of her uniform almost entirely. She stared him down, a snarl on her lips, and a nearly petrifying hatred burning in her beady eyes.

"Yer a coward, rat! A stinkin', piebald coward!"

They circled, slowly. The Captain continued, each word lingering in the air before plummeting like acid to melt the snow beneath with enmity.

"Running from battle like a... a scared... a whiffin' _coward_!"

Kriley said nothing. He didn't care. Didn't _want_ to, but yet... he felt a small flame wicker into existence. He glared back.

The weasel sneered. "You make me want to hurl... to think, a wobbling little wretch like you could beat me, could defeat my regiments? Where's your honour? Where's your pride, rat?"

Still, Kriley was silent.

"Scared of kissing... scared of battle... that you were _winning_... Why'd you go and..." She stopped and quite suddenly surged forward. "DO SOMETHING! FIGHT! YOU BLOODY COWARD!"

In a single heartbeat that stood in his way between rest and strife, the rat parried. Because he had to win.

He wouldn't be useless. And he would _not_ die a coward.

The rat screamed, an incomprehensibly savage howl, and pushed back against the weasel's blade with a might that seemed not even his own, forcing her back a pace. Surprise flittered across the weasel's face, across that hateful mask, before it was replaced with the same blazing snarl as before. Hissing, she threw herself at Kriley.

The brittle winter air gave vent to agonized shrieks of protest as both creature's blades flashed and clanged against one another, seeking and searching for flesh. Kriley grit his teeth as he rushed his foe. "I hate you!" He roared. "You're the coward! Nothing but a drunkard! Scum!" The rat punctuated each accusation with a thrust, but the weasel twisted almost unnaturally away from the blows, returning them in kind.

"Pathetic! You're not even... not one whisker of the rat Lilith was!" The weasel drew back and sliced upward, Kriley just managing to avoid getting his stomach split open by jumping back.

His next step, however, sent him tumbling to the snow-covered earth with a bump and a squeak. Attempting to scramble to his footpaws, he instead was forced back down as a boot stomped down hard on his stomach, driving the wind from him. Tears sprung to his eyes, blurring his foe's face. He struggled violently for a moment, but she stomped again, and he let his body fall limp, chest heaving with exertion.

"All of the lives lost..." It sounded as if the weasel was fighting for her own breaths as well, nearly choking on hot anger. "... to _this?_ Hellgates... I..."

Kriley's lips moved, but nothing seemed to come out. The weasel leaned down a little. "What, you miserable-"

The rat lunged. Disregarding his weapon, he clawed at the weasel's face. As he raked her fur, deep into her flesh, he didn't see or feel anything other than brightly burning blue hatred. He sliced for his stolen childhood. He gouged for always being such a bloody _coward._ He tore for Sunyl, who was one of the only beasts who had truly trusted him. And he snarled and spit for his Imperium, to finally bring pride to his family name and-

He whined. Something _burned._ He attempted to trace the awful gash and gave up, shuddering. He collapsed.

"So," all the warmth had bled from the weasel's voice. "I suppose you had some backbone after all." Kriley's glasses had long been knocked off, buried somewhere in the snow, but from the damage inflicted, it was clear that she wouldn't be seeing any better than him anytime soon.

The hatred and anger drained slowly, burning a hollow deep in Kriley's heart. He sobbed. "I only wanted something to drink," he gasped. It hurt. "But." He forced himself into a sitting position. "I won't let you... murder my home."

He saw the lissome blur approach and prepared for her to finish him off, but instead, she seemed to dither and then crouched beside him.

Kriley blinked, feeling her warm paw close around his own. "What...?"

"I know."

And they sat there for some time, in the dwindling silence. Kriley shivered with cold.

"Cigar?"

Kriley shook his head slowly, but found one forced into his paw all the same. "It'll make it better," the weasel assured. It seemed more like a command than a request, and so the rat nodded, closing his claws around it. Warmth, yes. He needed it ever so much.

The rat exhaled, and for a brief moment, imagined himself as a dragon. He coughed up blood and smoke. He felt his eyelids drooping, and he was barely aware of the cigar burning a hole in his uniform. His eyes misted over with fatigue. Just a little sleep, and he'd feel worlds better.

Very slowly, the weasel beside him seemed to shift and morph until she was replaced by a ratmaid. Kriley was surprised by just how _vivid_ she seemed, sitting there quite primly in the snow with a teacup in one paw. She nodded curtly, but Kriley found he was frozen in place, unable to do anything but stare at the other rat.

"Hullo. Lovely day, hm? Except for the present circumstances of course." She tittered dryly. "Jenni Green, dear."

Kriley groaned. "Why?" He managed.

Raising an eyewhisker, Jenni put the teacup down. "Well, I must admire a beast who's to the point. Very well, then." She steepled her paws, staring at him quite severely. "How would you like to be a real hero?" she asked, holding out her paw. "You've already taken the first step."

Kriley did not hesitate. He reached forward, gripping her paw in his own. He did not flinch.

"Very good." There was just a glimmer of warmth in her eyes, and it lit his soul. "Come with me."

And the two rats padded off into the depths of the dark forest.

end of week four. 


	57. Something in Song or Story

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week five. 

**Chapter 56. Something in Song or Story****  
**

_by Seth  
_

Seth had never had broken ribs before, but he knew with certainty, as they clicked and creaked with agonizing precision inside his chest, that he never wanted them again. He glared in the direction of the lifeless ferret who'd caused the damage.

"Rot in Hellgates!" he snarled. Something inside him shifted and he moaned in pain as he took stock of the situation. All around him, the remaining beasts storming the ditch were slowly being driven back by the Imperium's soldiers. Warily, he eyed a fox who had just finished off a rat and was now advancing on him.

Seth grimaced as the beast licked blood off its battle axe and grinned at him. "Your turn, bucko."

An arrow grew out of the fox's eye.

"Not today, not on my watch! Devonshire!" Steep bounded forward, an archer at her side.

Seth winced and turned. "Captain?"

The weasel stormed past and gutted a stoat who was trying to off a rat in a green uniform. Seth shook his head.

"What're you doing here?" he yelled over the clang and screams of battle. "If it's about Keinruf, it's Pip's fault for dumping him with you. I was watching him!"

Steep offed another beast and then kicked it for good measure.

"You're bloody stupid, Devonshire!" she yelled at him. "You took a bloody kit to the bloody front lines and now you've gone and bloody well ruined everything!"

Seth's hackles rose on the back of his neck. "That wouldn't _possibly_ be because most of your regiment left to join Maxwell's ranks, would it? And I never asked for the bloody kit!" He ducked as an arrow flew past his head.

"Of course you didn't! Your type never asks permis—wait, they _what_? Oh, bugger all. Just shut up and get back to your son! The rest of you—Seventh, Eighth and Nineth Regiments! Whoever's still here! Storm the ditch!"

Seth watched grimly as the remaining Southerners gathered raggedly around Steep and began to advance on the ditch. Two of them fell instantly from arrows.

"Captain, we have to call a retreat!" Seth yelled. "It won't bloody work!"

She ignored him and with a sigh, he moved after her, his ribs protesting bitterly with every step.

"Captain! Steep! We have to turn back!"

The weasel kept on going, slashing left and right with her sabre.

"What's the hold up? I said _charge_! Devonshire, you ninny, go back!"

Seth's jaw dropped as his Captain ran headlong towards the ditch, her ragged crew falling behind in the wake of her mad dash. _Is she insane?_

Then something hit his left ear.

"Hellgates!"

He could feel blood trickling down the side of his face. All around him lay the bodies of dead and dying. A freshly severed head stared at him with dull eyes. No matter what direction he stepped in, he was going to tread on a paw, or tail, or some other mysterious appendage. Here and there the glint of metal from fallen weapons or the occasional wedding band shone through. Looking down at himself he saw his green uniform covered in the blood and gore of others. What remained of the trampled snow that wasn't churned into slush and mud was stained red.

For a moment, time seemed to slow. Ahead of him he saw Steep moving towards the ditch where vermin in maroon uniforms waited to cut her, and her scattered followers, down. He watched her stumble over somebeast's arm. Then, she was there, slashing away at anything that moved.

Seth was all for battles - particularly when they involved scantily clad females and gambling. However, as blood dripped down his face and his ribs clicked inside his chest, something other than bone snapped.

"No," he said. "No! Captain! Get your tail back here, I'm calling a retreat, now!"

Nothing happened. If anything, a few more missiles were launched in his direction and Steep sped up her suicidal charge.

_Bloody 'Gates._

He forced himself into motion, following Steep's trail of curses and corpses. A rat stepped up to stop him, its cutlass swinging towards his stomach. Seth swung his own sword down to block the blow but felt the cold steel hack into his side before he could bring it to a stop. He snarled and twisted his sword up, watched as his own blade slashed open the rat's stomach and gore spilled out for all to see.

The marten pushed forward, ignoring the rat's screaming as he neared Steep.

"_Captain!_"

Her sabre never stopped moving. "If you don't go back to your son this instant, I'll kill you myself!"

"He isn't going to die in the next ten seconds!" He ducked a swing from a club and yelped as a slingstone nipped his footpaw.

"Well, you are! What, you think I am, too?" Steep growled back.

A fox with an impressive array of gold plated teeth, toting an immense spear charged forward. Seth stepped aside and, swinging up, hacked at the base of its skull as it passed. He winced as the body crunched when it hit the ground.

"I'd say it's a very possible occurrence!" Seth shouted over the noise.

There was no reply. Seth looked up from the body of the fox and saw Steep swarming up the other side of the ditch. Ahead of her was a rat running for the trees.

"Really, Captain?" he shouted, "_Really?_"

She never even paused in her rush. Seth looked around at the other creatures struggling to keep their lives by ending whoever brandished something sharp at them. Green and maroon uniforms had blended with blood until everybeast looked about the same color.

"Everybeast stop!" He shouted. "Everybeast bloody stop! That's a bloody order, and I'm going to court martial anybeast who disobeys!"

To his shock and surprise, it worked. For one long moment, everybeast in the ditch lowered their weapons or froze with them in mid air. And for that moment, in the immediate vicinity, silence reigned. Then, a heavily-earringed weasel who was bleeding from his shoulder spat on the ground.

"And who're you in command of?" he asked. His tone was questioning, exhausted.

Seth thought quickly. "At the moment, everybeast." This seemed to satisfy all for the time being, and they smiled woozily at each other and nodded. Seth eyed them and bit his lip. Sooner or later they'd figure out who was who and go at it again. But perhaps in this drunken stupor made of blood, pain, fatigue, and the fact that he was the only officer left alive in the ditch, maybe he could sort it out.

"Southerners, retreat," he ordered. "Go back to your own lines! And you Imperium lot, get out of this stinking ditch and go get something to eat. No one's going to win this ditch today. Now everybeast jump to it! That's an order!"

There was another long moment of silence and then the weasel who'd spoken up earlier raised a paw.

"Just one thing ah… sir," he said. "If you're with the Southy's and we follow your orders we might all get executed. And if you're with us and you send all them beasts back, then they die dishonorable deaths… So my question is… I don't suppose you'll tell us which side you're on?"

Seth narrowed his eyes. "Are you questioning an officer?"

He nodded as, with almost a unanimous sigh of relief, each side split and trudged back towards their home lines. Years of giving orders to servants did pay off. You knew how to make the tone just right in imperiousness.

Now then, to business.

As the last of the Imperium's beasts crawled out of the ditch, he followed them, cursing with every twinge. Steep's trail was easy to follow. Sabre slashes in the snow as she ran after her quarry were a rather obvious clue. That and the trail of paw prints towards the trees were the only ones headed in that direction.

She was smoking.

Seth approved of smoking. It usually occurred in dim lit rooms where you sat comfortably in overstuffed chairs and had the option of playing cards, brightly-dressed females hanging on the back of your chair and smiling at you. Or you could cease smoking and engage in other activities - usually with the brightly-dressed female of your choice.

"Captain!" Seth snapped. "Get up. We're going back. And for Fates' sakes put out that bloody cigar. Not. On. The. Corpse. Thank you _very_ much."

Slowly the weasel looked up at him. Seth glared down at the gashes across her face that made her look like something out of a nightmare.

"Devonshire," she said wearily as she wiped blood out of her eyes temporarily, "you've got an arrow sticking out of your ear."

Seth reached up and touched his left ear. Distantly he remembered something tearing through it and causing lots of pain. That probably explained why it was throbbing now. He tugged at it.

"'Gates!" He let go. For a moment, he stood with his eyes screwed shut, waiting for the pain to recede. He heard a snort.

"Learn to obey orders, Lieutenant. I told you to go back and take care of your son. You're all he's got left, and you're bloody well-"

"Shut up, Steep! Shut the bloody 'Gates up!"

He blinked. Yes, he had said that. His teeth clenched and he waited for her to make one of her usual comebacks, but she was silent as she stared at the scarlet snow and smoked her rapidly shortening cigar. Beside her the dead rat stared straight ahead, its own cigar cold and lifeless.

Seth swallowed and found his tongue again.

"Yes, I said shut up," he snarled, composing his anger to words. "I'm sick and tired of everybeast kicking me around and whining because they have to save me! Well, let me tell you something: This time, I'm the one saving you. You hear me, Steep? I'm bloody well saving you!" He was yelling now. He could hear his voice bouncing off the trees. "I don't even know fully why I'm here." That didn't' make sense did it? "All my life, I've had everything! Then, for some shopped up reason, I'm shipped out here to the middle of nowhere to consort with the very slime of the gutter! Not only that, but when I try to keep some form of decency and integrity intact, I'm beaten and insulted and fobbed off to a regiment with a captain who wets the bed and, given the opportunity, gets so stinking drunk that she can't tell if she's commanding soldiers or food supplies!"

He paused for air and new insults when there was a flutter of wings. Pip landed beside him.

"Captain!"

Seth whirled on the bird. "And you!" He yelled. "You!"

Pip whirled right back on him. "Me!" He mocked. "Me! Shut up, Devonshire!"

With a snarl of rage, Seth jumped forward, sword out and seeking the blood that he knew had to be under the bird's thick plumage. Then, his ribs clicked and his knees buckled, and he found himself gasping for breath on all fours. Pain ripped through his head and he screamed as Pip grabbed the arrow and yanked it free.

"Something wrong, Devonshire?" Pip asked sweetly. "I simply acted on Regulation 276F: Removal of Enemy or Friendly Missile from an officer's ears, nose, hindparts, ect." The plover threw the arrow at Seth's face. "That's for back at the hotel, you tosser."

For a long moment, there was silence. Then, Seth looked up into the bird's narrowed eyes.

"Have I ever told you," he asked slowly, "how much I utterly loathe and despise you?"

Pip tilted his head. "Every day, my _Lord_."

"Good," said Seth. He picked up the arrow and stabbed the point into Pip's clawed foot.

With a squawk of outrage, the bird flapped its wings at Seth's face. The marten howled and jerked back from the stinging blows and flopped over into the snow. The impact against his ribs sent agony screaming through his body, and his screech of pain threw echoes through the trees.

Steep groaned and clutched her face, hunching over and shuddering, and her smoking cigar dropping from her paw into the snow where it sizzled, glowed red, and went out.

Seth and Pip stopped and looked each other, at Steep, and back at each other.

"Captain, I'll --"

"We'll get the --"

"No, you need --"

Seth grabbed Pip by the shoulder and spun him around. "It's my turn to do something to help her," he growled. "Fly back and tell the medics that they have two badly injured officers coming in. Hurry!"

Pip hesitated for a moment, looking back and forth between Seth and Steep. Then he nodded his assent and began to hop towards a takeoff.

"What is it?" Seth snapped as the bird halted.

Pip glanced at his wounded foot and then back at Seth. "Never mind, I think I'll ask _them_ to take care of that, when I get there."

"Come on, Captain, once we cross the ditch then it's just a short trot back to camp."

"'Short trot,' my tail. It's half a bloody mile... Where'd all the Imperial swine get to? Did we win? Don't tell me _you_ killed them all."

"Well, maybe I did," Seth snapped. "What would you know?"

"That you probably bragged them to death over tea."

"If I didn't have broken ribs and didn't need you as much as you need me right now, I'd leave you here."

"Just don't expect a medal for this. Lock won't even give them out to beasts who escape the enemy's clutches alive."

"That's fine, I'll promote myself. Don't step on that, it's slimy."

"I'm not a kit needs minding, Lieutenant. I may step on whatever I bloody well feel like stepping on."

"No, but remember the last time you stepped on a slimy bit, you took us both down. And while normally I wouldn't mind rolling about with a gorgeous female like yourself, I find that with our current states of health and the state of the ground, it's not my first choice of activities."

"If I felt better and could see your face, I'd hit you."

"If you felt better, I'd hit you too. Now then, step around the nice fox, not on that dagger over there, and -'Gates! I told you not to step on the slimy bits!"

Cursing and muttering, the two hauled each other upright and moved forward across the field of death. The creatures well enough to drag themselves back to camp had done so, putting to rest those who were beyond help on the way.

Together, they squelched and slipped their way through the mess of bodies and gore, pausing once to pick up a spear to use as a walking stick. However, after the third head got impaled on the end, they tossed it aside in favor of less mess.

Pip was waiting for them when they reached the hastily set up tents. Keinruf stood next to him, one paw firmly stuck in his mouth and the other holding a rather soggy looking piece of bread, which he offered to Seth.

The two wounded stopped, and as medics swarmed out to meet them, Seth leaned forward and pulled the well-sucked paw out of Ruffy's mouth.

The kit growled at him and made a face.

"Your mother thought so too," Seth said, and then collapsed down onto the stretcher they were holding for him.

"Pip, Captain, we're home."

Then kind, forgiving darkness closed in.


	58. She Just Changes Her Mind

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 57. She Just Changes Her Mind****  
**

_by Gloria  
_

If a certain plover were to fly over a certain hook-pawed stoat at a certain altitude on a certain battle field at precisely the right time, he might have the opportunity to observe several things. First, the stoat was grinning hungrily as she stabbed, slashed, and killed the green-coated beasts with whom she came into conflict. Second, that white fur is a dreadful thing to have on a battle field if appearances are important. Third, the Vulpinsulan forces had returned to defend the ditch that a certain pine marten had told them to vacate only a short time ago. And finally, archers can be a rather unpleasant lot when they're not on your side.

--- --- ---

Gloria relieved a spear-wielding rat of his left arm as he drew away to prepare another strike. His first attack had been a painful reminder to mind her back. The beast screeched and flailed the stump of his limb at her before the stoat managed to put him out of her misery.

"A pox on yer eyes and all yer kin!" the captain snarled at the corpse as she straightened, winced, and cast about for her next opponent.

"Captain!"

_Eh!_ Gloria narrowly avoided stabbing one of her own as Sil, supporting a fox who was bleeding badly beneath his Guard uniform, grabbed the lady stoat's shoulder. She growled at the Mistress of the Keys, "Don't be snagging m'clothes in the middle of a fight or yer liable t'lose yer pretty head, Ms. Kashiro!"

"Captain," the wildcat said again, ignoring the threat, "they've set up archers on the farm hill and surrounded them with spearsbeasts. The creatures in the ditch are getting slaughtered!"

The stoat scowled, whirling away from Sil and cutting into a Southern ferret who was trying to make good use of her distraction on the battle field. "Well. Stop. That!" She punctuated each syllable with a thrust, ending with an upward slice that caused the ferret's innards to become intimately acquainted with his footpaws*.

"We're _trying_ ma'am!" the cat cried, her feline features contorting - that gave Gloria pause. The Mistress of the Keys was easily panicked, cowed, and frustrated, but desperation was not common along her emotional spectrum. "Ye Fates! We're - argh!"

The cat went down, an arrow protruding from her side. The fox she had been supporting fell too, his eyes already glazed over like a summer fruit tart. Gloria looked around herself - _finally_ looked around with her bloody sword held ready and her tongue lolling out.

Southern archers fired volley after volley into the ditch where the Vulpinsulan forces - who could not escape to the higher plateau - were being mowed down like so many daisies before a malicious kit. Wotfers and Guard and Navybeasts mingled with the enemy in a multi-colored carpet across the frozen earth. On all sides, the green tidal wave ebbed and flowed, gaining more ground than it lost with each assault. Her gaze finally settled on a figure stumping amidst the combatants, his face set in a disdainful frown as he picked his way across the corpses and up the hill where a lizard was directing the archers and operations.

_That scrag-tailed pygmy!_ Gloria seethed, wiping the drool from her chin and baring her teeth at him. She took a step forward, then almost jumped out of her fur as a paw grasped her boot. _The 'Gates?_

Sil groaned something, reaching out with her other paw, but the lady stoat kicked the cat away instinctively, stumbling back in the process. She barely avoided tripping over another body, pin-wheeling her arms and nearly losing her sword in the process as the slick handle slid in her grip. Gloria finally righted herself and immediately decapitated a rat who strayed too close.

A scalding jet of blood sprayed the captain's face, blinding her. "Erragh!" she articulated, pawing at her eyes.

"Captain Ruston."

_Die. Just die, ye malingering midget!_

"What a pleasure to see you again under the circumstances."

Gloria finally managed to crack open her eyes, blinking away tears that formed a muddy track down her cheeks on either side. Lock stood just out of range of her sword and smirked. He had his own blade out, but appeared to be using it more as a walking stick than weapon. She forced a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "General Lock, the pleasure's all mine. Carpet of foreign fops under paw, who wouldn't be s'pleased? Fair fine of ye t'be donating s'many beasties t'fertilizing the Vulpinsulan fields, aye."

The incredulous brow that the fox raised indicated that they were both aware she was blowing smoke up his tight hindquarters. "You've lost," the general stated. "Again. I should like to hear you admit it before I have Captain Maxwell kill you." A leer this time to accompany the words as he indicated the lizard farther up the hill who had an archer faced toward the pair. "Really. They'll be your last words. I should make them memorable. And loud. I doubt _I'll_ be the one to remember them, after all."

Gloria's ears fell back, her eyes narrowed, and her hackles rose along with the corners of her lips. This beast - this _runt_ of a dogfox - was talking down to her like some rank-and-file fool. "Yer a bold little thing, foxy."

"Indeed." A beat. "Could you hurry it along, though? I'm on a schedule."

The stoat found her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword as the General's stench invaded her nose and mouth, as his shining white canines reflected the few remaining patches of untainted snow, and as his coarse fur ruffled in the cold Primary breeze. The Guard and the Wotfers and the _Stormchaser_ crew screamed and fought and died around her as the Southerners began to take the plateau, making for Wright's archers. But for a moment, her world was reduced to a pair of sunken yellow eyes taunting her, daring her, _laughing_ at her. She raised her sword to fling it at Lock and -

_"Yer worse than useless, Gloria. Yer _inconsistent_! And all for that 'Gates-blasted pride!" Da' sneered, kicking the stoatmaid hard in the stomach as she lay pinned on the basement floor, her paws held by iron shackles that rattled with each blow. "At least if ye were completely worthless I could send ye off t'the Navy like Rudd and be done with ye! But no! Ye have t'be a little clever. Ye have t'be a _little_ good!" He kicked her across the muzzle, then sighed as he knelt down to flick her sensitive nose. She clamped down on the scream that was begging for release inside her throat. "Oh, Gloria. Ye'll die for of that pride one day. Ye mark me. And ye'll take Fates knows how many beasties t'Hellgates with ye for it."_

- and lowered it again. She leaned back, straightened up, and glared down her nose at the Southern general who had taken her home from her and now dared to march on her Emperor.

_It's time t'withdraw,_ she realized.

_That's losing!_ another part of her roared in protest. _Not again! I won't lose again!_

_Ye can't win if yer dead._

The rage snarled and howled and beat its fists against its chest, but finally relented, slinking back to its well-worn home and hobby: agitating the ulcers in her belly.

Gloria smirked and felt a little of her spirit returning as Lock's grin morphed into a suspicious frown. "If these're t'be m'last words, General, I'd be terrible appreciative if ye _would_ remember 'em." She sheathed her sword and used her paw to make a very crude gesture Wazzock had taught her one evening over tea. "Go make kits with yer mother, sir."

"Maxwell!" Lock began, lifting his saber as Gloria lunged at him, hook forward to ward off the blade. An arrow thunked down behind her as she wrestled the fox to the ground, pinning his weapon to his chest.

Not to be outdone, Lock thrashed like a shark, free arm coming up to beat at her side, and knees trying to push themselves into her stomach. Gloria held out for the ride, ripping a dagger from her belt and managing to slice open Lock's chest before his teeth clamped down on her paw. She dropped the blade with a snarl, jerking back and up.

_Don't scream. Just hurt. Just maim. Just get those archers' attention. Just -!_

"Argh!" An arrow slammed into her shoulder and she joined Lock on the ground. It was only for a moment, though. She scrambled to all fours and scuttled away calling, "Retreat! Imperium! Retreat! T'Amarone! Retreat! Retreat!"

_Thunk._ Gloria jumped to the left as an arrow embedded itself mere pawlengths from her. _Thunk, thunk._ Two of its fellows followed, sending hollow reverberations through the ground and small clods of dirt to her footpaws as she dodged around corpses and a few remaining combatants.

The cry was taken up by the survivors as they turned tail to flee. "Retreat!"

Wright and his archers were already running down the road, their guard of two score Wotfers fending off any would-be pursuers. From the forest, more Vulpinsulans emerged. Battle weary, but not nearly quite so almost-dead as their companions from Applebottom's Farm.

Gloria bared her teeth as she ran, gripping the shaft lodged between her shoulder and neck. Another arrow ripped through her ear, taking two of her silver earrings with it. "Curse ye for breathing!" She howled back at the archers.

_Those were a gift from IceRain!_

It didn't matter at the moment, though. At the moment, they ran, the cheers of "Huzzah!" from their enemy paving the road of their defeat.

--- --- ---

_'My Lord Baltsar,_

We have been defeated at the Clover estates.'

Wright didn't say anything as Gloria, drained of war-lust and blood, staggered into the camp he and the lead runners had set up half an hour down the road. He stood from the ground, dusted himself off, walked over, and then punched her in the face.

She stumbled, then punched back... harder. She aimed for his wounded arm. Wright yowled at that, but before another battle could commence, Wazzock intervened.

"Who'd like some tea?" The rat had a mug out and offered it to the seething pair of vermin.

"What?" Wright growled. "_Why_?"

"When in doubt, make tea," the Captain of the _Stormchaser_ intoned with a solemn nod. "Calms the nerves, lightens the mood, and works wonders for wounds!"

The mention of wounds brought back the pain from the arrow and Gloria grimaced. "We'll do this later," she promised the pine marten before trudging off to where several medics were bandaging and sewing beasts up.

_'We are tending to our wounded presently, my Lord, but will make for the palace post haste. I would recommend you begin preparing defenses if you have not done so already.'_

"Get this arrow out of me," the captain grumbled at a ferretmaid named Tierhart. She looked the least harried of the medics.

"Right away, ma'am! Just let me fetch some more herbs and bandages."

"That looks a bit uncomfortable." Wazzock had followed her over.

_Bother._

"Are you sure you don't want some tea, Ms. Gloria?"

She looked from the mug in his paws to the rat's face, then back to the mug. Tea couldn't _hurt_ anything, and after having Lock beat her... again... she needed a drink.

"Aye." The stoat reached out her paw. "Give it here."

"Righto! Oh, and I was wondering if you'd seen where my first mate's run off to. He's a quiet chap, so he's easy to miss - rather like a duck among geese - but I should like to have a word with him before we start soldiering on toward Amarone again. Seems a fair number of the crew were mortified, in a more literal sense, by their first land battle." He had removed another mug from somewhere on his body and was packing it with snow.

_'Nearly a third of the group we brought with us are dead, but I'd wager a mansion full of gilders that a fair few more Southies are sleeping permanently in the Vulpinsulan fields after today.'_

"Lord Clover...?" Gloria thought for a moment, a scenic string of portraits passing so quickly in her mind's eye that the figures appeared to be moving. "Aye..."

_She heard the crack of glass as her booted footpaws beat the snow. Then, a suspiciously familiar green scarf stamped into the discolored slurry. And there! She hopped over the corpse of a silver and white rat, a spent cigar locked between his rigid jaws._

"He's dead."

"Pardon?" Wazzock froze.

"I said he's dead, Wazzy."

"All right, Captain!" Tierhart had returned. "Let's get that arrow taken care of."

"I think you must be mistaken, Ms. Gloria."

"Now just hold still, ma'am. I'm going to pull the arrow the rest of the way through."

"I think I – _Argh_!" If the arrow had hurt going in, having it come out was one hundred times worse. Gloria couldn't breathe for several seconds as the medic hastily pulled down her coat and shirt, packed the wound, and bandaged it.

"All done! We'll have a more thorough look in Amarone, Captain. Better supplies."

Gloria considered stabbing the ferret for being so ridiculously cheerful as she sauntered off to tend to other beasts, but then decided that it would hurt too much to move right now.

"But how can Mr. Kriley be dead?" The lady stoat's tearing eyes flicked to Wazzock. The mug had lost the fight with gravity and fallen to the ground. "I... He..."

Gloria blinked at her fellow captain, then glanced down at the mug still clutched in her own paw. "Drink this," she ordered huskily, indicating the tea.

To her surprise, Wazzock's features darkened and he snarled something that she had only ever heard him say once before - directly following the death of his mother and father. "I believe we are past the point of tea, Gloria. Since we returned to Bully Harbour _every single_ officer under my command has died. Mr. Nemik, Mr. Soriss, Mr. Jibfang, and now Mr. Kriley. 'Gates! It's mad. That city. This country. I tried to waltz through it all. I tried to not let it get to me, but... Oh, 'Gates. It's all gone to broken mops and wicker water buckets. In the Imperium is a bloody horrible dance partner."

He hung his head, shoulders slumped and tail as lifeless as a worm in a bird's gut.

_Well, isn't _that_ a fine picture of misery?_ But it was all wrong. Wazzock did _not_ get miserable.

"That's rubbish, Wazzy." Gloria sniffed, straightened, then curled back over again, biting back a screech. She took a sip of the tea in her mug. "Officers are meant t'die. Hopefully good ones last a bit longer, but they'll all wear out their usefulness in the end. If ye want 'em t'stop dying, tell 'em t'quit the Navy. Ye sign up for the risk the moment ye put yer mark t'that contract."

"You really think it's as simple as all that?" His mournful expression had returned to anger. "_Really_? I'm sorry to say, Gloria, but beasts are not meant to be snorted into like handkerchiefs and trodden under paw. Perhaps you do such things, but not me. These creatures were _and_ are my friends!"

"No," the lady stoat said.

_It's never that simple, but ye have t'pretend it is..._ Sil's blood-stained face had joined the ranks of beasts who glared at her, accusatory, each time she closed her eyes.

"They're yer crew, Wazzy. Yer not meant t'be their friend, yer meant t'be their cap'n. And as their cap'n, they expect ye t'quit whinging like a ratling who's lost his fav'rite dolly and promote some new officers. If they're dead, ye get new ones. Promotions make beasties happy, eh? And, of course, they also expect ye t'provide 'em with a spot of tea now and again." She smirked and was rewarded with a tiny upward twitch of Wazzock's features.

"I can agree with that in part, I guess." He shook his head, sighing. "We don't see snout to snout, miss, but I can give you that. You're a shrewd beast, ruthless. You're not muddled by my sense of morals... Yes. I know. Horrible thing for a rat to admit he has. But it's all a rodent can do to fend off the darkness. I just... I don't like being the fellow stamping tickets for a one way trip to the Dark Forest." He took the mug of tea from her and swigged deeply. "Well, that's the way the lots fall, I guess. All we can do is keep fighting the good fight, eh?" The Captain of the _Stormchaser_ lifted his head, a smile returning to mask the emotions he hid more thoroughly than any beast in the Imperium. "We really are mad, aren't we, Ms. Gloria?"

"Aye," she agreed. "Some days more than others."

_'We will prevail at Amarone, my Lord. With your guidance and the castle gates and moat to guard us, we cannot lose to the Southern scum._

May the blessings of His Grace the Emperor tumble down upon you like a golden fog,  
Captain Gloria Ruston'

--- --- ---

_'Captain Ruston,_

I am most disappointed with your performance. I gave you a simple instruction: stop any advance toward Amarone. You are quite lucky that Admiral Jelliko, Blademaster Ruston, Commissioner Kips, and MAUL have been having better luck at Bully Harbour since your departure. We will have words upon your arrival at the capitol. Until then, think on this: Your incompetence has brought disgrace to the land forces of the Vulpine Imperium. I do not like to see my country disgraced.

The beast who employs you... for now,  
Lord Baltsar, Minister of War'

--- --- ---

* The exchange went as follows...  
Footpaws: "Why, hello! I don't see you down here often."  
Innards: "Well, it's my first time hanging out, you see."  
Footpaws: "Care to join me permanently?"  
Innards: "Why the blue bloody blazes, not?"


	59. One Legged Angel

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 58. One Legged Angel****  
**

_by Lock  
_

_General Lock:_

It appears that we were grossly misinformed about the Imperial Fleet being completely incapacitated. Several of their ships have appeared on the coast of Bully Harbor, and some have attempted landings. As perverse as it seems, Captain Ruston's burning of the docks now seems to be in our favor. But given the limited garrison you left me, I doubt I can hold for long. I suggest turning back and giving me the assistance I need, or else Bully Harbor is lost.

General Drua

Ps. General Scott's personal ship has sailed for safety, which I'm certain was of great concern to you.

Lock considered drawing a picture of Drua and Scott on the note before burning it, but he settled for crumpling the letter into a wad and throwing it at the wall. "Dear sickly Lock: please come save our collective tails from our bumbling existence. Pah!" the fox growled, folding his arms. Three days ago he had won one of the most complete and total victories of his career, and what kind of thanks did he get?

Turn back… honestly. He was halfway to Amarone already, his army was in desperate need of reorganization after the battle, there was no assurance that Drua would hold out long enough for Lock to even provide assistance, and as it just so happened, the fox was incapable of moving himself anyway.

Lock grimaced as he tried, for the fifth time that day, to try and lift himself out of his bed, courtesy of the commandeered Clover Estate. And for the fifth time, he fell back down, his back simply unwilling to fight the infernal agony. Lock clawed at the mattress, visualizing tearing to shreds the stupid mug of that one pawed, half brained, psychotic strumpet of a stoat. Any beast with an ounce of class would have just handed their sword over and admit that Lock had crushed them. But no, she had to go and tackle him to the ground, in the process doing Fate-knows-what to his back.

_Next time, we skip the talking and go right to the part where I take her head off…_

At least Major Darcy seemed unconcerned with the fact that his General finally had to lie down and take things easy. "Good afternoon, sir," he greeted, strolling into the bedroom. "I just came from the healer's, and she said to have you drink this." The rat produced a tin mug with some steam emanating from within.

Eyeing the mug with some distrust, Lock accepted it anyway. "Is this the same healer who recommended holding my head under water for five hours to cure headaches?"

"I think she was just being clever that time, sir. Although, really, if you _did_ hold your head under water for five hours, then you wouldn't have any headaches, because you'd be…"

"The status reports, Major?"

"Oh, right." Coughing into his paw, Darcy took a clipboard out from under his arm. "Well, from those Captains which actually _made_ reports, Redmond says he lost roughly 30% casualties, and that Yool did even worse. Oh, and he suggests that, since Yool's dead and has no real successor, the remaining regiments could just be transferred over to him."

"I'll consider it."

"Captain Terion says he has nothing substantial to report, and I couldn't get anything out of Captain Soothaus, because he said something akin to 'Apparently, I'm not _important_ enough to make an official report.' I tried to explain that you really didn't mean it, but then he threatened to bite off my ears, so I let him be."

"I'll have a word with him."

"Captain Klist says he barely lost anything at all, but I suspect he's either lying or mistaken. Maxwell discovered this morning that he has several new regiments which he can't account for, and Captain Steep has yet to write anything down."

Lock nodded as Darcy placed the clipboard back under his arm. "So the usual, then?"

"Looks like it, sir."

At least nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Any sign of the enemy nearby?"

"No one's seen anything, but Captain Soothaus has asked if he could send forward the Experimental Regiment to pursue."

The fox groaned and rubbed his brow. "Not that silly project of his and Drua's again. Why that was given any credence, I shall never know."

Darcy shrugged. "Well, we've brought them all this way, we may as well use them."

Sighing, Lock gave an acquiescent wave of the paw. "Fine. If it makes Soothaus happy, fine." At least it would make the cat happy for a minute or two.

The bigger problem on the plate was that he was now caught firmly in the middle of a vice, with Admiral Jelliko on one end, and Gloria Ruston on the other. His supply line was now as good as gone, so staying put for any deal of time was hardly an option. That meant moving was essential, and he had the choice of either going forward, or going back. Out of the two, Lock fancied moving forward to Amarone: Jelliko may be in strength, but the Southern Army had all but destroyed Gloria's company, and one more push on her front, even with the palace and its defense at her disposal, would lead to a collapse.

"Major Darcy, inform all units that they are to prepare for a further advance on Amarone as soon as possible." Eager to ensure that there were no delays this time, Lock began to rise out of his bed. Unfortunately, his back had its own opinion on the subject of getting up, and the fox flopped back down. "Provided, of course, I haven't descended into a coma by tomorrow morning."

Darcy's features brightened. "Oh, right, now I recall! Some of the lads patched something up to get you moving again without hurting your back."

"Did they create me a body that actually functions somewhat normally?" Lock grumbled.

"No, sir. Sergeant Fritters was the only beast we had who knew anything about putting bodies together, and he's dead now. No, we got you something else." In spite of himself, Lock glanced with some interest as the Major scurried out the door to retrieve this mystery cure to his back problems.

Interest quickly turned to something resembling horror as the cure-all was actually wheeled into the room. "No," said Lock, emphatically.

Darcy rapped the sturdy wood of the wheel chair with his paw. "Come on now, sir, it's not as bad as all that. Besides, Halfear and Slicky worked all morning building this it."

"Then they can spend all night chopping it up, because I'm not using it."

"Now, sir, you've been going on for three days that you'd do anything to get out of that bed, and this is your best bet."

"But…" Lock caught the slight whine in his voice before continuing. "But I'll look like someone's granny in that! If I don't get laughed at, it will be nothing short of a miracle."

"My granny had one of these, and no one dared laugh at her. She would beat your head with her walking stick something fierce!"

"Major Darcy, I am _not_ your granny."

"Of course not, sir, what with you being a fox and all." Brooking no further argument, Darcy padded over to the bedside. "Come on, sir, I'll help you up. It won't be that bad."

Lock stared gloomily at the wheel chair. If any beast made a single "holed-doughroll" joke… "General Drua must never hear of this."

"Yes, sir."

"…Alright, then, help me up."

Lock's fervent wish that beasts would knock before they entered his rooms continued to go unrecognized, as Captain Steep walked, un-beckoned, through the door. "General Lock, I… Eeeeeh!" Whatever intelligible words the weasel had intended dissolved into a shriek as she spotted the wheelchair.

Nearly falling over as Darcy helped him out of bed, Lock had enough composure left to fix his trademark glare on the Captain. "What the blazes are you going on about, Captain Steep?"

Steep's shriek died quickly as she realized it was General Lock who was being helped into the chair. "Oh, General Lock! Er… I saw the chair, you see, and I thought, well, as ridiculous as it sounds to me now, that you might be…"

The fox pointed a claw at the weasel as he settled into his rolling prison. "Captain Steep, I order you to never finish that sentence!"

"…Scott. Ahem. Apologies."

"I do _not_ bear any resemblance to General Scott! None!" A quick mental image of an obese Lock being carted about by grinning cronies while everybeast laughed behind his back flashed across the fox's mind, causing him to shudder slightly. "The only thing we have in common is a wheel chair, and mine is only a temporary inconvenience." He would _not_ wind up like Scott. "In fact, I barely even need it now," he said, pushing himself up out of the seat, only to fall back in defeat. "…But it just so happens that it's very comfortable, so I'm staying here by choice."

The weasel wrinkled her nose in concern. "It looks like it's constructed out of splintery planks."

If Lock had to spend any amount of time in a wheel chair, he insisted that it look nothing like that pleasure-vehicles of Scott. The last thing he needed was his soldiers seeing their General being carted around like some Queen. It set a bad example. "Cushions are for beasts who want as much fluff on their bottoms as they have in their heads."

For some not-understood reason, Steep stiffened her back slightly. Careful, sir. Such comments could be reported on."

"As all reports go through me before reaching any other echelons, I don't know it would do much good."

"Ahh, right. Not that I'd need to file a report anymore... Heh. 'Fuzzy bottoms', who doesn't like a..." Looking like a beast caught saying something they ought not, Steep scratched her nose uncertainly. "Perhaps that's not... So what's the top speed on that thing, anyhow?" she changed the topic, indicating the wheel chair.

Lock frowned at the wooden device as his secretary wheeled him behind a table. "As its Major Darcy powered, it really depends on how much sleep he's gotten the night before." The rat mumbled something about having to run all the time.

Steep brightened up at the prospect of Darcy's new job. "Don't fret, Major. Have you seen Gibb's biceps? Enough to make a lady feline swoon."

No matter what, Lock swore, Darcy would not gain his biceps by pushing him around. "You needn't worry overmuch, Major, because I won't be in this thing very long. I just need to get my second wind back, and then I'll be back on my legs."

Darcy coughed slightly. "Er,_leg_, sir."

The fox glared up at the rat. "Do you fancy pushing me around a countryside tour, Major?"

"No, sir."

Steep seemed pleased at the idea. "Oh, that's a fine tour. The Mirkovic estates are very fine in the winter, the apple orchards... You should definitely take some time to see them." Ignoring the panicked headshaking of Major Darcy, the weasel continued. "There's even some pheasant hunting you can arrange if you manage to get farmer Mistoffelees in a good mood."

Lock waved his paw in dismissal. "Thank you, Captain Steep, but we shan't be here long enough to partake in pheasant hunting. I intend to have us move out as soon as possible, so I suggest you organize your division. And try not to get drunk this time."

"Oh, you don't need to worry about that, sir."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I'm resigning."

"And I'm resigned to accepting that you probably _will_ get drunk, but try not to kidnap any more gulls... wait, what?"

Lock was positive he had misheard, and began to doubt his senses as he saw Steep place her beret and Captain's stripes on the table. No sign of a smile was on the weasel's face. The General had to blink five times before finally asking, "Captain Steep, are you drunk _now?"_

"A bit!"

Surely, that must be it. Otherwise, it didn't make sense. "How much say did the sober part of your brain have in this decision?"

"All that's left of it, sir. Which isn't much. Which is why I decided this is necessary."

Lock flopped back into his chair, exasperated. The Captain who had fought with him for the continued existence of her job was now standing in front of him, asking to resign. A week ago, Lock would have accepted without hesitation, but for some reason, as of this moment, the whole thing didn't feel right. "Explain."

Steep looked a mixture of angry and ashamed as she explained. "The beachhead. Lost my entire regiment. And just now... I couldn't... couldn't think. Couldn't give orders, sir. What use am I, as a Captain, if I can't do that? I'm a soldier, not an officer."

"No, I know that. Battle doesn't seem to be your forte. What I'm puzzled about is less than a week ago, you stormed into my cabin and demanded I respect your abilities as an officer. What changed between then and now?"

"Two hundred corpses changed, sir," she said with a slight choke.

Was that all? Lock felt almost relieved: he had thought something especially serious had happened. "You needn't panic about _that._ The position held by the enemy was exceptionally strong, and casualties were to be expected. I don't fire my officers for losing soldiers. I fire my officers for losing battles. And as far as I know, you were at least present with your division this time, and didn't disappear to some bar. You still have your one strike left."

If Steep had any kind of appreciation for Lock's attempt to placate her concerns, she certainly didn't show it. "I... it's not... Rrgh. I don't _like_ being a Captain. Not if I can't do it right. That... that yoofish snob of a marten is a better officer than I am. If that's going to be the case, then I don't want to be an officer at all, sir. Let Devonshire take my command."

For about one quarter of a second, Lock was somewhat taken aback by the outburst.. The other three quarters of that second, however, saw that concern gradually grow to contempt for the prissy weasel princess. "You're quitting because it got hard," he sneered. "You come barreling into my office, demanding me to respect your abilities, and the moment you find a hitch in the road, you want out. Fantastic." Frustration growing, the fox hit the chair's armrest with his fist. "What in blazes is _wrong_ with you, Steep? I give you a second chance, which I _very_ rarely give _any beast_, and how do you repay me? By throwing it away as if it were nothing!" _And that's why it's not worth the time to be nice to beasts,_ he added mentally.

The weasel was not to be intimidated, slamming her own paws on the table top. "It's not hard. Soldering is hard. It's EASY to be a Captain. It's easy to give stupid orders and ignore half your regiments because you can't remember you have them at all. What's hard is doing what's best for Emperor and Country. What's hard is giving up so that somebeast better than you can do the job you failed at. Look at you... you think because you have one leg that being an officer is hard. It's paperwork and numbers for you! You don't get to memorize their names! You don't get to tell each one of them what to do, and watch them die!"

Enough blood surged through Lock's veins that he thought his head would explode. "You think you've got it rough? Lop off a leg, shrink six inches, and get yourself a body that can barely move on its own and then come back and tell me what's hard!" Visibly shaking, the fox slapped the side of the wheel chair. "For Fates sake, I can't even fall down with being reduced to a wreck!" He was tired of everyone expecting him to be sympathetic to _their_ problems while they were completely oblivious to his. "Add on top of that that I deal with the well being of seven thousand individual soldiers who expect to be paid, fed, and organized in such a fashion that the bare minimum of them wind up dead. And get to deal with every ego in the officer Corps who thinks my sole purpose is to grant them their every wish, a superior commander who thinks my illnesses are comedic, peers that are constantly after my job, and then everyone wonders why I'm in such a bad mood all the time!"

Steep was unsympathetic. "Well at least you don't have to _marry_ your superior commander just so you can serve your country!"

The heads of the two creatures were barely a foot apart as they exchanged heated glares. Locks eyes started to dry out as he refused to blink. Unfortunately, Steep had much of the same idea. Except that her eyes didn't seem to be drying out. Rather, they were getting slightly moist.

"I don't…" she started, but her voice faltered. "It's just… it's frustrating, is all!" Like hot air leaving a balloon, the weasel's shoulders sagged, and she fell back into the chair Major Darcy had propped up behind her for just such an occasion.

Lock sunk back into his wheel chair, not feeling any better for the brief shouting contest. The sight of a dejected Steep sitting alone in her own chair struck a rarely used empathetic chord. Perhaps it was due to the faint memory of a young fox cadet who was told a beast of his condition was simply not officer material, and the only support he had was his own spite and desire to prove everyone wrong, leaving him embittered against the world.

"Look," he started, but was unable to find the right words to continue. Curse it, he was no good at this sort of thing. Yelling at officers was more his game; consoling others was not up his street. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "You made mention, I believe, of your peers not thinking you have what it takes to be an officer. That your flaws and personal problems inhibited you from actually doing anything. Certainly, your own father insinuated as much when he reluctantly made your appointment, not to mention all previous reports I had on you." Placing his paws on the table, the fox leaned forward. "Yet when you barged into my office on the ship and started making incredible demands, you had all the air of someone who did not care that every other beast said you had no chance, and was determined to prove the world wrong. And even if we never understand one another on any other issue, I think we can both identify with that."

Steep looked up, making eye contact with the General. At least that was something.

"There is no greater waste in this world than someone who has ambition and a desire to succeed to just wither away and die. There are plenty of those beasts already, lounging around in obscurity and poverty because life didn't hand things to them on a silver platter. You've got more than enough spirit to rise above those peasants, and I'd rather you succeed than fail, even if you do drive me completely mad." He pushed Steep's Captain's stripes back towards her. "You will take this experience, and you will learn from it."

The weasel did not pick her stripes back up, instead staring at them with mistrust. "What if I can't learn?"

"'What ifs' are unseemly, Captain. I wouldn't recommend dwelling on them."

"It's not a question of 'if,' it's a matter of 'when.'"

There really was nothing harder than getting somebeast determined to fail to think otherwise. "'When' is just as unwieldy as 'if.' I've been diagnosed by healers to die from illness six separate times, and yet here I sit. There is no such thing as inevitable failure so long as you do something to survive it."

"…I don't want to survive it."

_Alright, that's enough of the comforting pep-talk._ Lock leaned back in his chair and hardened his tone. "Unfortunate. Because I intend to see that you do. Resignation denied."

The placid and understanding mood that had claimed the last few minutes was shattered as Steep jumped up out of her chair, livid at this rejection. "You buggery, whiffering…"

"That's not a word, Captain. And if you feel uncomfortable with combat duty, you are hereby assigned to tend to the prisoners we have taken. But you are not simply up and quitting on my watch."

There was some concern in Lock's mind that Steep was going to punch him. Thankfully, she contented herself by storming out of the room, slamming the door, leaving bother her beret and stripes behind.

Slightly unnerved by the following silence, Major Darcy remarked, "If it's any consolation, sir, that speech would have made _me_ pick the stripes back up."

Lock could do nothing but shrug. Who knew that motivation was such a difficult thing to master? Blast it all, Lock was sick of everyone _else's_ egos. Dealing with his own was more than enough. After all this was done, he was filing for a holiday. Absentmindedly toying with a quill pen, the fox gave it a slight flick, watching as a small spot of ink flew across the room. He did it again, only this time he watched as the floating bob sailed in a graceful arc, landing with a glimmering splash on the lake. "Do you fish, Major Darcy?"

That was just about the last question the rat had expected his General to say after the previous scene. "Sir?"

Lock was about to repeat himself, but decided against it. It was bad enough he was in a wheel chair, he didn't need beasts thinking he was going mad. "Never mind. Fill out the necessary paperwork to have Captain Steep transferred to dealing with the prisoners." He contended himself with writing out the specifics for the advance on Amarone.

"Yes, sir." Darcy moved to retrieve the necessary documents, but was interrupted by yet another beast, clothed in a black hood and cape, swooping into the room and hurriedly shutting the door behind it.

"In all the blue blazes, doesn't any beast believe in knocking?!" Lock growled as he looked up from his papers. Slow recognition of the figure standing in front of the door quelled Lock's frustration. "Oh, it's you." He had wondered when one of them would show up. "Major, stand outside the door and make sure that not a soul is anywhere near hearing distance." The rat nodded and, with no small aura of nervousness, edged around the Mysterious Figure and exited the room.

The Mysterious Figure strolled forward, its garb practically dusting the floor. Lock thought the whole ensemble melodramatic to the point of excess, but recognized the importance of not being recognized. "No mask?" he commented, smirking slightly.

The Mysterious Figure glared at the fox, but decided to let the comment slide. It seemed more surprised that Lock was in a wheel chair, and said so.

"A minor back injury suffered during the fight, courtesy of Gloria Ruston. Though I suppose reducing both her and her so called 'army' to a pathetic rabble is compensation."

The Mysterious Figure nodded. Would the Southern Army be continuing its march on Amarone soon?

"Once everything gets back in order. I trust there are no further surprises in store down the road?"

There shouldn't be, said the Figure. Gloria and what was left of the original Bully Harbor defense had retreated to the palace.

Lock tapped his armrest, ire growing at the thought of still being chair-ridden during his next encounter with the Stoatorian Guard Captain. She'd just _love_ that. "Make kits with my mother... bah." The Figure inquired what Lock had said. "It isn't important. I don't suppose you could save me the trouble and just kill the stoat, could you?"

It couldn't. It would be very improper, and incredibly risky. And if Gloria managed to live, as she was wont to do, then the whole plan would go up in smoke.

"Hm." How Lock could mow down hundreds of Imperial Soldiers, win two separate battles, and still miss Ruston every single time was something of a mystery.

It didn't matter, said the Figure. The Vulpine Imperium had suffered defeat after defeat, and the cream of the crop had been destroyed. The time was right to provide terms of surrender to the Emperor. There wasn't an aristocrat, bureaucrat, or noble who would object now. The Southern Army had beaten them fair and square, and any concessions would not be refused.

The eagerness with which the Figure spoke made Lock grimace. "Before we string up a banner declaring 'Mission Accomplished,' it may interest you to know that those depressed nobles and aristocrats just received something that will stiffen their spines." The General found himself annoyed with the Figure's look of confusion, as if it should have already known what had happened. "Admiral Jelliko is on the verge of retaking Bully Harbor."

The Mysterious Figure nodded. It knew, it said, but there wasn't a great deal it could do about it now.

"That certainly is contrary to the information you provided me with," said Lock, not hiding his displeasure with the Figure's misinformation. "Not only do I now face the fabulous prospect of a two-front war, the entry of a practically fresh Imperial army with victory on their brow is going to make any peace settlement in our favor impossible."

The Mysterious Figure rubbed its chin in thoughtful concern. Once the Imperial Palace itself were to fall, that would be be stimulus enough to re-assert a defeatist sentiment.

"Perhaps, though such an event will take some time. Ruston has a knack for making my plans go awry, and it's only a matter of time before I have Jelliko biting at my tail."

The Figure changed the subject. First, was there any news on Ballroom Dance?

"Yes. We managed to find the previous Minister of Innovation's personal log on the subject."

The figure looked positively giddy. Could it see the file?

"No."

Why not?

"I like to think of it as job security." Besides, if it wasn't sharing news freely, Lock didn't see the need to share his own. "All you need to know is that Dance Partner is within the Imperial Palace, and it's rather imperative that I get in there."

The Figure smiled. It believed it could work something out.

"Good."


	60. What the 'Gates?

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 59. What the 'Gates?****  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

The noise of trudging paws through snow filled the world about the Imperium troops. Little existed past the sound and moving forward through the gloom. The weather sprinkled them with white, the snow gathering on their uniforms and hides. Snouts produced jets of cloud into the air, sparkling off the torchlight. Morale formed icicles with each embrace of frigid wind sneaking into every crack of cloth.

Wazzock sighed. He tried to sift through his mind for anything to warm the mood, anything to turn to and consider, but found that nothing quite took the edge off the spiked ball in his stomach. He needed to smile, he needed to change his expression upward for the sake of his crew, for that what was all that really mattered now. He needed them to make it through this. To 'gates with the Imperium.

He shook himself, this statement sending a fresh chill down his spine. Such a treasonous thought he should not consider. He didn't quite hate the Imperium, just what it did to beasts. It got into their minds until, after it had finished with that, it began to eat at their souls, until there was nothing left of the creature it began with. The Imperium left no mark, and, for the most part, there was no sign it had done anything to a creature until it was too late.

The Imperium killed creatures.

Wazzock remembered finding his mum's body laid across the counter of the fish shop.

The Imperium could never be stopped.

Wazzock remembered finding his father in the backroom, gutting a fish, as he did every morning, whistling.

The Imperium could not be cured.

Wazzock remembered the smile on his father's face, his father wiping off his bloodied paws on his apron, licking the cleaver.

The Imperium…

Wazzock did not remember the words his father said.

The Imperium…

Wazzock remembered what the words caused to happen to his soul.

The Imperium…

Wazzock remembered driving the cleaver into his father's skull.

The air had smelled like smoked pike.

He reported the event to the Fogeys, told them everything. No charges were filed. Old Mister Pike had snapped and done away with his wife. Tried to do the same to his son. His son, Wazzock J. Pike, acted in self-defense. There was an article in page three of the Smelt.

The Imperium.

Wazzock stumbled, fell, snout first, snow filled his vision, mouth, and snuck down his shirt. His crew was about him, helping him up, patting him down, brushing the snow off.

"We're almost there, Captain Wazzock, jus' got to the edges of town."

Wazzock closed his eyes. What had he done then? He'd went to sea. He thought about what had happened. He started the notice details again. The same things he noticed all his life, the details nobeast cared about, the ones he always stated aloud, to see how they would sound. Wazzock settled back into those details as he swabbed the deck, the details that sweetened life about the edges. He thinking of these details, he kept moving forward, until he came to this point.

He noticed droplets of snow hanging precariously off his whiskers. He smiled. "Thanks for the report, chaps. We've made good progress over the evening. I believe Cap'n Rusty shall be quite pleased. But as close into our destination, I believe some reorganizing or our ranks is in order. We've been taking some shots to the upper ranks as of late, and lost some smashing chaps, but we mustn't let their deaths mark the end of their legacy of leadership. We must carry on and get to important matters."

"Tea?" a fox asked, hopefully.

Wazzock needed to fight the impulse to hug the vulpine.

He didn't win the fight. He really couldn't ignore the pride that bubbled up in his heart. He hugged the fox until it sounded as if the fellow wheezed, "Cap'n…you're hurting my ribs. They're sorta broken."

"Oh, sorry," Wazzock said, releasing and whacking the fox across the back. The fox promptly fell to the ground.

A ferret sidled up. "Ur, cap'n, he had a back wound too…" he whispered into the rat captain's ear.

"Oh, sorry again," he said towards the fox, who twitched in the snow, "Somebeasts better give him a paw."

As the crew got to this, and the march continued, Wazzock honed in on the ferret. "So Rift, how are you doing?"

"Fine, Cap'n Wazzy."

"Now, I've been running the details through me mind and I was thinking, over the seasons, I've seen you from time to time in your cabin, chatting away and commanding the air, arguing points between you and yourself. Was back when I was in my swabbing days, you see, was just cleaning under the hammocks, you don't want to know about the stains, but it gave me a chance to see you unfettered by the thought of observing eyes."

The ferret stiffened. "You saw that. Oh. You see…"

"I must say those arguments had structure, matey, good ol' structure, and though it seemed at times that I only could hear only one side of the story. I got a sense of organization, as if you could see items from another angle, due to your mind giving a second opinion."

"It's not like that at all. He's always there, I can't get rid of him, I just…"

"So could you be the _'Chaser's_ bosun?"

"…what?"

"The bosun. I need a creature that get their jaws into it, and their brain into it too, and just deal with it in a rough and tumble way. I believe your mindset is made for the job."

"The swearing is unnecessary, it's not as if I'm incapable of the job."

"Oh, didn't know I swore. Was it 'tumble'? I've always been wary of that word."

"No! Not you, Cap'n, I mean, of course I'll take the position."

"Good to hear, Mister Rift. I shall give you instructions as they become available."

A cry arose from the ranks. Eventually, fragmented details of monsters started shifting from beast to beast and the order to halt among them. Wazzock looked about. They were into the midst of the small village surrounding Amarone now, building windows winking reflections of torchlight from the shadows. They stood in the middle of the main street, huddling closer and closer together, as a distinct clicking overcame the sound of boots crackling on snow.

"As for now, Rift, you are in charge of the crew for a few whisker twitches. I must check up with Cap'n Rusty."

Wazzock slithered between creatures until he made his way to the head of the group, where he found Gloria punching Wright across the jaw. He ignored this event, and stepped over Wright's body to get beside Gloria. He fiddled with his whiskers, waiting for Gloria's breathing to go down.

"What d'ye want, Wazzy?"

"Well, just here to inquire about our status. Something about clawed monsters, I believe."

"Aye, that's about right," Gloria stated, a hiss in her words.

Wazzock opened his maw to ask what this meant, but before he could, Gloria had grabbed a torch from a hapless weasel and threw it forward. Normally, the torch would have just been doused landing in the snow, but this being the city square, directly in line with the palace, a basin of oil was set in the middle, dutifully refilled every night as a beacon of…something Wazzock couldn't remember from his studies as a ratling. Something to do with the Emperor's golden-ness.

The torch lit said basin, and gave light to the hold up. Scattered around the basin, and all around really, on buildings, in alleyways, on the street, were large blue crabs. They waddled about the basin, waving and clacking their claws, as if performing some odd tribal dance.

"The village beasties're holed up in the palace, is m'guess. Meanwhile, these _things_'ve come scrounging for rubbish." Gloria bared her teeth at them. "Creatures past the Hellgates, heralds of Vulpuz himself."

"Isn't that one of your nicknames?"

"What?"

"Nevermind. I don't see the trouble, Gloria. Just some crabs. I used to deal with them all the time when I was a ratling, going to places my mum wouldn't let me. I remember distinctly you never wanted to come to the Bay of the Blue Crabs. Something about them being 'stoat-eating fiends.'"

The stoat captain's eyes narrowed. "They _are_."

"Posh. I believe they are rather adorable, pardon the language. Wonder if they remember me. Well, 'tis a fine time to find out." He produced a fish from under his coat.

"Wazzy... ye keep fish... in yer coat?"

"At all times, smoked. You just never know."

"I don't even have the words, Wazzy. Yer not serious about trying t'subdue them?"

"Of course not. Just going to reintroduce myself and explain the situation."

"There's nothing t'explain! They'll kill ye, ye daft rat!"

Wazzock ignored her and stepped forward, away from the group, towards the flaming basin, also towards a crab standing before it. It faced Wazzock, claws clacking, eye stacks tilting forward, focusing on the rat, or perhaps just the fish. In any case, when Wazzock saluted and clicked his tongue, the crab clicked his claws back and quickly closed the gap, reaching his claws for Wazzock's body before suddenly freezing, the claws a whisker's breath away.

Wazzock clicked his tongue again, the crab clicked back. Wazzock sighed and clicked again, before calling, "Gloria, call off the archers. Seriously, have a little faith, miss."

"Stop calling me 'miss,' Wazzy!"

He clicked his tongue, the crab took the fish with on claw, and Wazzock with the other. It placed the fish in its mouth, and Wazzock on its back, before walking over to Gloria, who's whiskers twitched.

"See, it's perfectly tame."

"It's staring at m'tailtip," Gloria said, moving her tail in the same way the crab moved its eye stalks.

"Pah. Hubert wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Hubert?" A touch of hysteria tinged her voice. "Ye mean…"

"Oh, no…they are all named Hubert after that crab from the old days. Even the females…but really don't know how to tell the difference yet…well, I've been told a beast can look…"

"N-nevermind ye mind about that. Does this mean we can move through safely?"

"Just pass some fish around to everybeast to give and that's that. These blue crabs shall just let us go on our way."

The crab clacked its claws.

Wazzock clicked back.

"What was that about?"

"Nevermind. Something about a stoat sacrifice for the annual celebration."

There was a notable stoatish sounding squeak among the ranks.

"Don't worry, I made a deal with them."

"What sort of deal?"

"I'll explain later."

Soon enough, they were on their way again, fish being dolled out to any crabs in their path, which, though they eyed all the stoats with a doleful look, gratefully took the fishy treat and moved on.

Wazzock also moved on, keeping in step with a rat of his crew. "I have a proposition to make to use, Mikkel. Something that I have been considering a long time, and I believe needs to be brought out into the open."

Mikkel squeaked, at a slightly higher pitch than Wazzy would expect.

"Oh, and I know you've been avoiding me a bit, due to that awkward situation onboard the _Stormchaser_. How were you to know what I was taking a bath in the hold? I must apologize again, I sincerely thought you were choking on a fish bone."

"Don't mention it."

"If you were choking, that move would have saved your life."

"That's fine."

"And I guess it did look a little strange when Krill walked in…"

Mikkel squeaked again.

"Anyway, the point is, since your father died, I noticed a change in you, undeniable change, about the way you speak, the way to walk, even the way your tail moves. I think it only means one thing."

"I…Cap'n Wazzock…"

"You're thinking too much of your father's death and you need something to get your mind off it. Of course, I assume the thrill of battle has done a dash of that, but I'd like to help you the rest of the way. How would like to be Second Mate?"

Before Mikkel could get words to come out of his gaping maw, an arrow took the hat off Wazzock's head and buried itself in a nearby fox's arm.

"Mmm…perhaps I should consider a smaller hat," Wazzock mused, "Anyway, have an answer?"

"Alright…I guess."

"Good on you, Mister Mikkel. Now allow me to help this vulpine who appears to be stuck with my hat. And please figure out where the arrows appear to be coming from." Arrows started swooping in from the gloom at varied angles. Every once in a while, the torches caught the hint of a shadow, but there was no solid target to return fire. Wazzock noted this as he carefully pulled the arrow out of the fox's arm, cleaned the wound with snow and a cloth, and then placed the hat back on his head. Soon enough, Mikkel returned. He gave his report in a breathless squeaky voice. "Cap'n Rusty says there's beasts attacking from the Southern Army. She doesn't know more than that. She's sending some beasts to find out where the source is and…"

A creature's yell broke the dark, followed by a limp body being thrown into the midst of the Imperium troops. Creatures surrounded the bloodied form, its throat ripped out, and a few limbs missing. The ferret looked as if it had been used as a chew toy for a badger.

"Well, it's not a stoat," a beast commented.

"So its not the Hurberts."

"Then what in 'gates is out there?"

"Can we fend it off with fish too?"

"Well, crew," Wazzock said, "One can never underestimate the power of fish. I'm going to go out there to check this out. Can't let chaps die willy nilly while leadership types stay out of the jaws of disaster. Just ask Miss Gloria. Send her a message, please. I'll be back in a tail wag, no offence to those of the vulpine persuasion. And you, Jericho, would you mind accompanying me?"

"Ur, yes, captain."

"And bring some fish, please."

The rat captain and the weasel plodded out of the group, into the still lightly falling snow, between a pair of simple homes. Jericho had a torch in paw. Wazzock had fish. He sniffed the air. He whispered to Jericho, "Here we are, on the preipise of the palace, and we have one more blade of the gantlet. Ah, one would think the Imperium would be enough pain itself, there always is another weapon at the ready to rip into the soul."

"Come again, captain."

"I'm just being dark and foreboding. I read rubbish novels as a ratling, Jericho, completely corrupted my mind, you see. I thought the tone of those tales fit the mood. You see…"

There was a low growl in the shadows of a shed to the right.

"I shall give you proper references later," he whispers, "By the way, want to be First Mate of the _Stormchaser_."

A form arose from the shadows, huge, hulking, sleek, violence seemed to drip from its fangs as its claws scraped against the stones under the snow layer. It came closer and details solidified. In part, it was just a stoat. What the stoat rode upon was the issue. A saddle had been attached a massive creature of white fur that shimmered and a maw that frothed.

Wazzock and Jericho started to back up. The stoat and the creature both seemed to grin.

"What is that?" Jericho hissed.

"Will you take the position?"

"Is this really the time, captain?"

"I need to know, would complete the chain of command. I already have a second mate, just promoted Mikkel, so if I don't appoint you…"

"Sure. Fine. I take the position."

"Just make sure you get your friend Quinn some help.'  
"Wait…you know about Quinn?"

"Oh, I just figured out what this creature might be. It fits what I've been told about a creature called a wearet."

"You would be correct," the stoat said, "An experimental division of the Southern Army. We have bred wearets and given them stoat riders. They would not adhere to either weasels or ferrets, you see. It's in their blood, quite literally."

"Why thank you for clarifying that," Wazzock said, "But…wouldn't that be sorta hush-hush information."

"For one thing, since this is our first mission, the secret should be out. Secondly, it won't really matter because I believe you shall die quite soon. You may take the rat, Urie," the stoat said, patting "I shall take the weasel." He notched an arrow in his bow.

"Well, for one thing, my proper title is Captain Wazzock J. Pike of the _Stormchaser_ and this is my first mate Mister Jericho. And secondly…" Wazzock whistled and clicked his tongue.

The stoat lowered the arrow, slightly.

"Was that supposed to be a signal? I don't believe your friends can help you now."

"I'm not certain you've met all my friends."

With that, a blue shadow dropped from the roof, landing directly upon the stoat, pinchers eagerly digging in, blood spraying on the snow. The wearet, confused, kept looking from Wazzock to the stoat dying under a cheerful blue crab.

"What the 'gates?" the wearet growled.

"What he said," Jericho said.

"Fish?" Wazzock asked, presenting it to the wearet. The wearet licked its jowls, then shrugged and took the fish in his fierce jaws.

"Can't turn down an offer of fish. Mostly why I help out these Southern creatures. So you're Captain Pike?"

"So I've been told," Wazzock said, tipping his hat.

"I thought you would look more like a fish."

"Common misconception."

"Fish is on my mind a lot, you see. I keep thinking I'm a little otter on my father's side."

"Oh, you're odd alright," Jericho murmured, followed by Wazzock jabbing him in the ribs.

"You are quite well mannered for a wearet. I thought they communicated through growls. No offence."

"None taken. It's a common misconception. We just get caught up in blood lust and all that rot. It's quite fun."

"Interesting, Urie, was it? Well, however this turns out, we ought to have tea if we survive all this."

"Ooo, tea. Does it involve fish?"

"It could."

"Well, I guess I better get back to my duties, report to the Southern Army of the status of our division and such. Thanks for the fish." With that, the wearet scampered into the darkness.

"Ah, that was a pleasant surprise, but we must get back to Cap'n Gloria immediately, Mister Jericho. You get back to the crew and get as many beasts as you can moving to the palace. Fast. Especially the stoats."

There was a growl and scream from nearby, followed by clacking.

"I don't want to know why, do I cap'n?"

"You know me too well," Wazzock said with a flash of a grin.

He scampered to Gloria as fast as he could, which required him to go four paws at full tilt. Thankfully, the troops had begun moving onward, though not fast enough in Wazzock's opinion. He glanced at the sky, it was overcast clouds turning slightly more illuminated from the morntide sun, the snow had stopped. The palace loomed ahead.

"Where the 'Gates were ye, Wazzy? I saw a stoat riding a bleeding wearet! And then, those bloody crabs came in and…"

"The crabs…" Wazzock managed.

"Aye! I just said. We saw a crab attack a rider. I don't ken what's happening, but we're getting t'the palace…"

"We need to run…"

"Run? Why?"

"The crabs will come."

"Ye said ye made a deal."

"I did make a deal, but when they get one stoat, they want another stoat, and then another stoat. I made a deal that there were more stoats coming soon and they could have them. That's not the literal translation, mind you, my deal was in much simpler vocabulary…"

"What are ye saying?"

"You were right. The crabs like eating stoats."

"Tell me something every stoat worth her hide doesn't know."

"Once they eat these wearet riders, they're gonna be in a frenzy for even more stoats. And deal or no deal, they are gonna notice the stoats of our group."

A long moment of silence, interrupted by clicking.

"I am going t'kill you, Wazzock Pike."

"Good to know, Rusty."

"Oi! Everybeastie! March at full speed! T'the palace! Now!"

Panicked marching followed, as the air lightened and blue crabs began emerging from every crevice of the town. Their yells obviously brought attention from the palace, for soon the drawbridge began to descend. By the time they made the drawbridge, there were practically crabs nipping at stoat tails, which was why the first wave of the troops was mainly the stoat variety. The drawbridge was raised, the Imperium troops tried to catch their breath and ignore the clacking from outside.

"Ah, you ran into the crabs, I see," a soft, though sharp, voice stated.

Wazzock turned towards the familiar voice and removed his hat. "Hello, dear." He was punched across the snout. He continued after regaining his balance. "How have you been this season?"

"Lieutenant Cynthia Pike," Gloria stated, an odd tone in her voice.

"Captain Gloria Ruston," the rat countered, giving a brisk salute. "I trust your journey here was uneventful." She cast a glance over the ragged troops.

"Of course," Gloria said.

Wazzock looked between the two's staring contest. "Actually, we…"

Before Gloria had to the chance to whack the rat captain over the head, Cythnia grabbed Wazzock and pulled him into a long kiss, taking his breath away. "Yeah, nice journey," he squeaked.

"You're not dead."

"I suppose not."

"Good. You still should have sent a MP."

"Yes, dear. You know how my mind sorta…"

"The Emperor shall see you now, Captain Gloria. Wazzy, you should come also. I believe the ministers were making bets on your survival."

"Oh, certainly, Cy."

"I made a killing, Wazzy."

"Good to hear, Cy."


	61. Something Keeps You Faithful

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 60. Something Keeps You Faithful****  
**

_by Pip  
_

Lock was fishing with his quill.

Pip shifted his position on the chair in General Lock's office, part from discomfort (the chair back always smashed his tailfeathers), part from the spectacle before him.

_I don't think he's going to like what he catches in here._ Pip glanced about at the detritus of papers, empty teacups, old uniforms --

"Is there a problem, Mr. Pleasantrie?" The tod looked askance at Pip; his paw stopped mid-cast.

"No, sir." The bird gave a sideways glance to the door. The fatigue of the previous night was bearing down hard upon him, and the basket he had snuck into the medical tent the night before was beckoning.

"Now," Lock said, pushing the last of the paperwork from in front of him, "You have a report to give?"

"Yes, sir." Pip took a deep breath and began to speak in a level tone. "I took the troop tally you asked for. We lost just over forty percent of our able fighters. Another fifteen are considered wounded, but with a possibility of returning for battle. That's just since we entered Amarone, yesterday. We lost plenty on the march over, of course."

"It could be worse," Lock mused. "Go on."

"A quick flight over the city showed two pockets of resistance. The palace, of course, and a group of guards that were pinned along the southern wall. They've holed themselves in a guardhouse and we've had some difficulty removing them."

The fox raised a brow. "Odd that they're still there."

"Not especially, sir. It's quite defensible."

"That's not what I meant, but..." Lock motioned with a paw. "What do you think should be done?"

Pip looked taken aback for a moment, but responded before he lost the General's ear, "Well, we could quite easily lay down an ultimatum: be burned alive or surrender. I know the troops aren't keen on taking prisoners, but there could be a minor noble among them. Or, at the least, we could salvage their arms. Some of the spearbeasts are down to using stakes."

Lock nodded to the bird. "Merciful, but logical. Interesting. Go on."

"The crabs were eventually taken care of, sir. We paid off a particularly immoral group of gulls to help dismantle them. And, other than that..."

"Mr. Pleasantrie," Lock leaned back in his chair and leveled a glare at the bird. "I have a fraction of the force I left with due to ineptitude and potential insanity from my officers. Do not think, for a moment, that I want you to cut corners with this report."

Pip moved to the arm of the chair and shifted under the fox's look. "Well, sir, if I'm going to be frank..."

"Don't mince words for my sake."

"We're not in an enviable position. We've supplies to last a good while, but certainly not enough troops to storm the palace. If Bully Harbour is lost, as I think it might be, we have no choice but to defend Amarone from the inside against the Imperium's reinforcements which will undoubtedly be coming to rescue their emperor. We need to, then, lay siege to the palace or enter it by surreptitious means."

During the assessment, Lock had gotten to his paw-and-stump. He mused, "For a messenger, Mr. Pleasantrie, you've an inordinate grasp of basic military thought."

Pip kept a straight beak – not a difficult task – and replied, "Well, sir, I suppose I've been around enough keen military minds that I've picked up a few things."

Lock shrugged. "Very well, then." He moved back to his chair and grabbed a bit of parchment. He began to skim through it, making marks at various points.

Pip glanced at the General, then at the door. "So, sir... am I --"

"How is Captain Steep? Is she fit to fight?"

Pip's voice rose in pitch and a flurry of words battered their way out of his beak. "Again? But sir, she just got done losing another regiment of troops! It took both of us to bring her back here and one of the healers said she's going to barely be able to see and she's still in pain every night! I mean, they've kept her from the drink and--"

"That will do." Lock waved the quill at him. His other paw was massaging a temple. "Just have her come see me when she is fit to, Cabin Bird. I'll get a straight answer out of _her_, perhaps."

Pip gave a miserable nod and hopped from the chair towards the hall.

As the door closed, he thought he heard, "Just set the hook and --"

Not two feet from the entrance to the new temporary headquarters, Pip felt a paw on each shoulder directing him to one side.

"Tzama? Ruby?"

"We'm be harvin' a few wurds, zurr burd." Ruby's voice sounded lower and thicker than usual as she pulled him to one side.

As they entered an alley, Pip glanced between the pair's stoney faces. "What's this about? I've been on air patrol all night. I'm beat."

"There'm be wurds 'round them camp fires that Miz Steep moight be'n demoted."

Pip rolled his eyes, "That's crazy talk, Ruby. She's still lost fewer than some of her peers. Like Yool."

"We heard about what you did to him." Tzama snickered.

Pip replied with a glare. "What _is_ this about? You didn't drag me over here for gossip."

"You'm zaid yurr be helpin' us'ns, aye?"

Pip gave a small nod. "I did..."

Tzama glanced back at the general's quarters. "You'll need to get back there tomorrow, then, and suggest to Lock that he send her back to Bully Harbour."

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Look." Ruby stuck a claw under Pip's beak and gave a beady-eyed glare. "Oi didn' zee moi mates be'n killed boi'n 'er dad no more."

"We missed out on her father last month, so we'll have to settle..."

Pip smacked the claw away from his face and snapped back at the squirrel. "What do you mean, 'We missed out'? She wasn't lying? You tried to assassinate her father?"

"Stop acting so shocked, Pip."

"Oy, yurr futhers ain't so whoite, burd."

"Hey!" Pip gave the mole a push with a claw and hissed, "I've _never_ helped you crazies. I work for the Colonel."

"Hurr... the Colonel." The sneer on Ruby's snout gave Pip shivers as it revealed a set of blackened, pitted teeth. "He'm be nuthin'."

"He doesn't know what he doesn't want to, Pip." Tzama stepped up next to the mole. "Now, we're just gonna keep her. I know you're all about prisoners and not killing. We'll take her to Bully, snag a ship, and keep her on one of the islands off of the Empire. Maybe with his princess locked up, Lord Steep'll see things our way."

Pip spat in the squirrel's eye. "Take a nosedive off a tall elm, barksniffer. I'm not gonna--"

The digging claws that encountered his solar plexus effectively ended any further objections Pip had.

"Yurr'm gonna do't, Pipper. Yurr 've got 'arf a day to'm pick yurr soide."

From his vantage point on the cobbles, Pip stared at the footpaws that moved away from him.

_Well... bugger._

He let a few moments pass before he rose, dusting his feathers off gingerly. _And who knew moles could punch like that?_

Pawsteps sounded behind Pip and made him cringe. "Look, Ruby, I told you --"

He turned to a much smaller assailant.

"Ah... Ruffy. Sorry about that."

Ruffy gave him an incredulous look, then mimicked a punch at Pip.

"Oh... that was nothing. Don't worry about it."

The marten moved next to him and looked up with wide eyes.

"Escape from your father again?"

A small nod was the reply.

"You know, he won't admit it, but he worries over you, Ruffy."

The kit shrugged and gave another look to the bird's mussed chest down.

"Really, Ruffy, I'll be all right. They were just – you know – trying to get a point across." Pip placed a wing about the younger beast. "See? Same old Pippen."

Keinruf removed the paw from his mouth and wrapped both as far about Pip as he could manage.

The bird turned crimson. "Oh, Ruffy... I mean, you didn't – you don't have to – you know I'll be fine, that is --"

A small growl was growing in the kit's chest.

"Hey, now." Pip disentangled himself from the marten's grasp. "Let's get you back to the medic tent, eh? Maybe ol' Pippen'll show you how to dye your fur purple with elderberries."

The marten beamed up at him, nodding vigorously at the plan.

As they started off, Pip smoothed down the front of his plumage. _It was just wet from that sticky paw. And Ruby must have gotten her claws in my feathers. That's why they're so mussed..._

Keinruf, one step behind the bird, picked a feather out of his mouth.

~~~~~~~~~

Pip had dragged his basket – requisitioned a basket-dragger, that is – out to Steep's guard post. It was just inside the westernmost guardhouse, an old prison long since ignored by the Imperium. Seth and Keinruf had joined them, mostly at Pip's nagging. At least the picnic had gone... fairly well.

"You always give us fish," Seth groused, picking a scale out of his teeth. "I don't like fish. Why can't we have real meat? It'd do the brat good."

Pip snorted at that comment. "I suppose you'd want me to fry up myself, next?"

"I wouldn't oppose the idea." Seth flicked the scale at his son. "Maybe braise though, I wouldn't want your tough meat getting stuck in my teeth."

Ruffy once again mimicked punching the bird.

"You're right, there. We could always tenderize him, first."

"You know," Pip mused, "just because I don't eat meat doesn't mean I couldn't give it a try." He lowered his beak to look at the kit. "You're about the right size for a good roast, Ruffy."

Ruffy blew a raspberry.

"Except maybe that paw. More waterlogged than a fish, it is."

Seth reached down and pulled it out of the kit's mouth. "Really, Keinruf, that is a disgusting habit."

The kit bared his teeth and gave a little growl.

"Hoi!" Seth cuffed him about the ears. "Birds are food, not friends!"

"Hey!"

"It's true!" Seth struck a noble pose, then turned back to Keinruf. "Besides, Pip's merely an errand bird. That's simply food that gets played with first."

"I'm not a – just shut it!" Pip tossed a fish bone at Seth. "Besides, you just look constipated." Pip leaned over to Steep. "I always thought he was a bit _stuck up_."

The weasel shrugged and turned the other way, ignoring the pair.

Seth dodged the thrown bone. "Oh aren't you _clever_, Mr. Salutes-and-asks-permission-for-privy-breaks."

"I do not! I just think it's only proper to make sure my commander knows where I am in case she needs me."

Seth snickered. "Please, ma'am, I'm flying with extra weight, here!"

Ruffy joined in, hopping to his paws and waddling about. He puffed out his cheeks and made weak flapping motions – very much like a furry, bloated bird.

"Yes, you do look like a gull with dysentery, Ruffy."

The kit made a rude gesture at Pip.

"Hah!" Seth snatched up his offspring and set him down on the table. "You forgot to waggle your tail. But I'll teach you a noble's ways yet."

"And what an honor that is." Pip rolled his eyes. "Kits left and right, fraternizing with crippled torturers, whinging about feather boas tickling..."

"Hey, I never planned on any kits. And that last one was _all_ yours, Pip. I told you not to put it down my--" Seth stopped and clapped his paws over the kit's ears to finish the sentence.

Ruffy only grinned at his father. A toothy, completely non-reassuring grin.

Pip leaned in and whispered to the elder Devonshire, "I can't help but think he's contemplating how deep his teeth can sink when he does that."

"Normal prey response, Pip. Give him a few seasons and he'll move past contemplating."

Pip snorted and turned back to Steep. "So, did you enjoy the fish, Captain?"

She shrugged. "It was fine." The weasel glanced out of the nearby window at the sky. "Time for my rounds." She got up and stomped off down the corridor.

Pip watched her go, then gave a sigh and turned back to the martens. "I'll try talking to her."

"Why bother? She's alive isn't she?" Seth asked.

"I'll bother because I'm not a selfish prat, Devonshire."

The marten collected his kit, who gave a jaw-popping yawn in protest. "Don't hesitate to hug her then. I wouldn't mind having plover for dinner. I'm sure the brat would enjoy it too."

Pip made a face at the retreating nobles. He then settled down for a few minutes, while Steep finished her rounds of the prisoners. When she returned, she plopped down into her chair and took up her mug again.

"Tea."

"Sorry, Captain..."

She took a drink, then pulled a face. "It's that horrid stuff, too, isn't it?"

Pip nodded. "The willow bark tea, yeah. The healer said it should help lessen the pain of--"

"It doesn't," she snapped back. Still, she kept drinking.

Pip was silent for a few moments before he began again, "I reported to Lock this morning. Seems like we got most of the city taken over, by now. Just need a raid on the palace in the next few days and we'll have won, I think." Pip glanced at the silent weasel. "He asked about you."

She grunted a noncommittal reply.

"He wants you to go see him in the next few days."

"'Course he does. Wants to see if I'm better."

"Well... are you, Captain? I mean, I know that rat got your eye pretty badly, but you're healing better. And I think the tea has been working, you're screaming less in your..." Pip trailed off under the glare of Steep.

"I'm _fine_, Pip. You can play mother duck to Devonshire's kit. Don't try to do the same to me."

Pip fell silent and picked at a crack in the flagstones next to his basket. The weasel's voice caught his attention, when she began to speak.

"When I was a kit, my mother would vanish for months at a time. I kept thinking she died, but she never did. She would always come back with presents. And one time she brought back this duck. A wooden duck, with a hat. And I told her what I wanted was a real duck. Well, next day, she went out and got me a real duck. I named her Sissy... Sissy and Prissy. I used to ride that duck all over the manor. Someone made me a saddle and everything. I loved that duck. And now I wonder, what was her name? Did she have ducklings? Did I ever find an egg and break it, not knowing what it was?" Steep sighed.

"What... happened to her?" Pip asked.

Steep didn't reply for a while. When she did, she looked away from Pip. "My father told me... that one day I decided to play cook. I could start the fire, but I could never open the oven myself. Someone left it open that day, after cleaning it out. And I could close it just fine." The weasel drew her footpaws close, hugging her knees. "I miss that duck."

Pip inched closer, "Captain... let me tell you something. My parents." Pip settled down next to her and heaved a small sigh. "My parents were both members of the SLA. 'Gates, everyone was, back then. The Empire just kept inching forward and if you didn't move or fight for every inch of land, well..." Pip shrugged. "If you were like me you became dinner. If you were like Llu or Tzama you'd be out in the fields. Sugar or tea were the worst, I was told. The hard cane and the boggy tea. You'd have cracked knuckles or rot between your toes."

Pip stopped a moment and settled himself further in the basket. "I was told, when I was not even a year old -- I was barely weaned off of being fed -- I was told that they were lost in a major push by the SLA. An attempt by the SLA to win back a major farm. It supplied food for most of the region. You know, I never really got to know them. My neighbor, we raised each other, basically."

He glanced over at the weasel. "I just wanted to say that, even though the worst happened, I don't hate you. Hate them... I mean. The Empire. I hate that that's the cost for a drip of land. I hate that if there was trade -- like the Empire and the Imperium had for years -- both the SLA and the Empire would be better off. I hate that I have to doctor orders just so they don't say, 'Kill everything that moves.' But I don't hate them. I know that most don't know better." He paused for a long moment. "And I don't hate you, Captain."

"Oh," Steep said. She rocked back and forth for a moment. "They're not _bad_, you know... The Empire. At least, from my perspective of it. You've seen the conditions, Pip. If you don't live in a castle, you live in a swamp. There's no _room_. We've got to expand, or die, just to make space. We couldn't push through the woodlanders, though. Floret, Salamandastron, Redwall -- everything pushed us back. That's what my mother was trying to fix. Look at this place! There's no room for us here, either. What are we doing, Pip? We were supposed to make allies with the Imperium, so we could take Mossflower together. Now it's some stupid pride vendetta, I don't even know. It should be my revenge, not the Empire's. She was _my_ mother. She didn't get anyone else a duck. She got _me_ a duck..."

Pip blinked for a long moment. "You're right, Captain. I'm sorry about her."

Steep didn't reply. Pip waited a few minutes before pressing forward with the conversation. "And Sissy? Well... at least it sounds like she enjoyed her time in the palace?"

"I wouldn't know, I never took the bit out of her beak so she could talk. Didn't know how to undo it. I put her in my toybox at night. She pooed over my dolls but that was all right, I never played with them anymore, since I got her. I guess somebeast must've been feeding her, because I sure as 'gates didn't remember to. She knocked me down, once, flapping her wings... so my father cut them off."

"I'm... sure she was fine, Captain." Pip glanced at the doorway a minute. _Don't push too hard at once, Pip...._

"She was, I suppose. Fine, that is. Yes. You know... I never did put the pieces together. I heard the rustling in the stove, but I couldn't do anything about it. And when it stopped, I just... forgot. I never saw her again. Haven't even thought about her until you came waddling up with that kit on your back... Maybe she wasn't even a 'she'..."

"You do know that that's probably the most horrifying thing I've ever heard in my almost-forty years. Roasting a beast alive..."

"I was just a kit! I didn't know any better! I _still_ don't, I think. Not really. Pip... Pip, I couldn't... eat." She sucked in a breath. "At dinner the other night. General Scott had ordered them to make a plover. And I... kept seeing you on the table."

"Well, it's a step." Pip smoothed his feathers and settled further into the wicker. "I'm not accusing you, Captain. You're right, you didn't know better. But you're wrong. You do know, now. Who knows, after I get re-assigned or killed on this Fates-forsaken spit of land, you may go back to eating plover or hen or pigeon. What have you. What matters, to me, is that for that second, you paused. You thought, 'I _know_ what this was. Who this could have been.' That's enough for me, Captain. That, and the fact that I've not been eaten, yet. I can't tell you how grateful I am for that."

Again, the room fell silent about the pair.

"I just want my duck back."

Pip glanced at the weasel and gave a short sigh.

"Captain... there's something I need to tell you. It's about the woodlanders."


	62. Love is Not a Victory March

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 61. Love is Not a Victory March**

_by Steep_

Steep didn't have a temper; it had exploded, leaving smouldering pieces scattered around the floor and walls of the jail. All that was left was a placid wasteland, the only hint of rage a residual smoke that was quickly being whisked away on a steel breeze.

Her paws felt clammy.

The Seventh Regiment's temporary barracks had once been a bakery with a dining area in front. The woodlanders—always troublesome when it came to eating normal food—had specifically taken it over so they could put the ovens to use in their own nefarious culinary schemes. The entire place smelled like raisin cookies. It was sickening.

As Steep slammed the door open, Llu's head conked against the top of an oven. Various rodents and other herbivores slid out of their hammocks or popped their heads around from behind the front counter. Steep scanned the room. About twenty were left of their original number.

"COMPaaannyyy... h'attenSHUN!"

A flurry of stone-scraping as claws and paws hustled to arranged themselves.

_Ah. Twenty-three._

"General Lock has issued orders," Steep declared. "Pack your things and be ready upon my return. We depart in one hour."

She eyed them. She would have simply looked at them, but her eye-patch gave her little choice in the matter. Even just furrowing her brow contemplatively gave her a nasty, evil little squint.

There was no sense of guilt, not like proper vermin. No fidgeting, no slow, subtle movements to hide the sheaf of wood-engravings that inevitably found its way around to each member of a platoon. Not one of them looked embarrassed for their rumpled uniform or winced from a badly-hidden cigar singing their fur. They honestly believed they were in the right, always. There was no dealing with beasts like that.

And they were just standing there, waiting for her...

"MOVE!" she bellowed, and slammed the door. She leaned against the wall outside, trembling as she sucked in a breath.

_Twenty-three... Two to hold, one to aim, that makes..._

Storming into the medical tent down the street, Steep headed straight for Devonshire's cot.

"Lieutenant Devonshire!"

A healer darted in front of her, nearly getting bowled aside before the weasel could slow her stride.

"You won't get a rise out of him, marm, he's just finished a _particklerly_ strong blend, and might I add, Captain, I shall need to check your salve–"

"Poppycock," Steep growled. "There's nothing in your rubbish stores that can keep somebeast asleep. Go boil your fat head in that fates forsaken willow tea of yours, and stay out of my business!"

Somebeast with a horrid sense of humour had seen fit to place Steep's own cot right next to Devonshire's, despite her assurance that her nighttime activities were completely normal fare and that it would be better if she had her own room in one of the many luxurious buildings elsewhere in the city so that the rest of the wounded soldiers could have a bit of peace and quiet. It was one of the few things she and Devonshire had managed to agree upon, and their combined complaining fell upon deaf ears.

Reaching under the bed, Steep flung aside two yellow nightgowns before finding her fiddle case. She'd barely had time to play the instrument between being poked at by healers and fulfilling her new duties as a prison guard, and with all of the knocking around it was getting, it had fallen out of tune. This was to her satisfaction. If there was one thing nobles couldn't stand more than actual physical pain...

She readied the fiddle under her chin, raised the bow, and closing her eyes, drew a long, slow note from the open strings.

Devonshire's ears pricked and he sat up groggily. Somebeast down the line threw a dirty pawsock that bounced off Steep's head.

"Captaaaain," the pine marten yawned, "it's practically still night. Go away."

"It's just past mid-noon, you twit," Steep said, putting the fiddle down with an inharmonious clang. "What do you know about the woodlanders?"

He rubbed his head, blinking. "That they're woodlanders?" he ventured after a moment. Steep resisted the urge to slap him about the ears with her bow. His next words were not as forgivable. "Can this wait till a more decent hour? My ribs hurt."

Steep punched him in the chest, eliciting a bark of pain from him. One of the healers started to run over.

"Answer the bloody question."

"Ow! What was that for? I saved your bloody life! Ow, no don't hit me again! I don't understand the question. What am I supposed to know about the woodlanders?"

"_Aaanyyythiiiing!_" Steep roared, shaking the cot. "Have you been talking to them, have you been hearing them, seeing them gathering anywhere, do they slip notes around, have they said anything suspicious to you, do they stand over me at night licking daggers and vanishing when somebeast groans in their sleep?"

"Er... you're not drunk, are you?"

The fiddle bow in Steep's paws snapped in half. She thrust the pieces at the healer who arrived. He took them, too baffled by the offer to resist, and then cringed away from the look she gave him.

Keinruf appeared from beneath the covers next to Devonshire, and peered groggily at Steep.

"No," Devonshire said, scratching the kit's ears. "No, I haven't been talking to them, I don't listen for them, I've never in my bloody life seen them gathering anywhere, I wouldn't notice slipped notes, they don't talk to me, and if anyone stood over you licking daggers I'd seriously question their sanity. Or mine. Can I go back to sleep now?"

"No. Get up, go see Captain Maxwell. I need at least sixty-eight soldiers, twenty-three of them archers, and I want them waiting for me outside their barracks in half an hour. And if you breathe a word of this to anybeast else, I'll have you shipped home in a box." Steep paused. "Several boxes."

The pine marten sat up with a wince, and yawned. "Do I have to? And what am I supposed to do with the brat?"

Steep seethed a moment, then suddenly smiled.

"No," she said, her tone dripping barbed honey. "Of course not, dearie, you never have to do _anything_ your captain asks of you. Orders? What are those? Things for _servants_, I expect. Of course my widdle ti'owd Dibbunshire doesn't 'ave doo boo anybink 'e don't wants doo! No, no, no!" She grabbed his nose and shook his head side to side. "'oo can just lay down and resteses and everyone will take care of 'oo, our special liddle beastie-weastie."

Devonshire smiled groggily. "That's more like–"

Steep jerked his head to the side, slamming it against the bedside table that housed his various medications, knocking them all askew.

"If I don't see you getting out of that bed in the next minute I'm going to cut off your paws and shove them so far up your rear you'll be able to pick up your next meal by blowing your nose on it." This caused the little marten to crack a huge grin up at his father as he shoved a pair of claws up his nostrils. Steep stood up and trudged towards the exit. "Leave the kit with the infirmary staff. Don't worry; if anything bad happens to him, they can give him _tea_."

Keinruf gave a happy sigh and curled back up into a fuzzy ball of baby fluff. Devonshire muttered and pulled his shirt on. "Lucky little bastard."

~*~*~*~*~

There was just one more thing to take care of: keeping Pip's friendship.

_Friendship. Hard to explain such a thing. But he's really the only one I can talk to, isn't he? Not Lock, not Scott, not Darcy, not the other Captains, and Devonshire would prefer I didn't treat him like he cares, I'm sure... I mean, I never even told Pylaris about Sissy! Sure as it's not something you really go around telling someone in the middle of a romantic dinner, but if I opened up that much... then he must be..._

A friend. It's nice to have one again.

"How do you keep the ink so fresh in this thing?" she asked, waggling the quill pen. Pip began to explain, but she'd already tuned him out.

The aviary was a mess, but at least it was quiet. Nobeast wanted to try to find a spot not smeared with gull doings, leaving Steep to have the whole room to herself. Missertross gulls had once roosted here, and there was a gigantic amount of parchment in the office portions of the building. Or had been, before Yool requisitioned most of it for stove fuel.

Steep propped her parchment on the bottom of an upturned feeder bin and wrote:

_General Scot, my Korny flufftub_

Suppressing a shudder, she soldiered on.

_I am wryting you today to say I am in grate helth altho I have sustaynd many woonds. I am told my—_

"Bugger."

"What is it?"

"I used to know this one... how do you spell 'Eye'?"

"Captain, I think you may need to have a lie-down..."

"_This_ kind of eye!"

"Oh! That's E-Y-E."

"That's stupid... doesn't even use the right letter."

_—eye will heel in tyme. Thank you for the nytegowns they have been very useful this past week. Of course the infurmury staf has not been allowing me my grog rations so I wood like you to have Words with Them please!!!_

"Captain, I don't know where you learned to write, but the purpose of punctuation is not actually to _puncture_ the parchment."

"Shut up, Pip."

_I hope you and General Drooa will be able to defend the Harber. We are still be seeging the palace in Amarown. Also I have been informed that the woodlander mersinary regiment you hired are akchooally S.L.A. and I am just now, going to deel with them so no worries._

Your fewcher sunrise, P.S.  
(That is the end of my letter.)

"That was quick," Pip said, giving a dubiously surprised look at the parchment as Steep rolled it up.

"Yes, well, I'm a brief weasel when I need to be. Do you think you can deliver it?"

"It'll take me the better part of the day... Should I wait for a reply?"

"Yes. Make sure he writes something for Lock, too. Don't want to waste the trip."

Pip tucked the letter into his tube. "Now... promise me you won't do anything rash, Captain. I don't actually know who's a part of... and I know you can have a temper sometimes. Just please—you know—don't kill everyone?"

"Of course I won't do anything rash," Steep said. _Rash is giving them a chance..._ "I'll have a talk with General Lock about what to do."

"I'll try to be back before morning."

"Tomorrow's fine, too. Take your time," Steep said. "I'm going to need it."

~*~*~*~*~

Steep nodded at the figure saluting her.

"Devonshire."

She stopped just short of burying her face in her paws as another figure stepped around into view.

"Maxwell."

"Good afternoon, Captain."

"Yes, hello. Devonshire, what is he doing here? I just wanted to borrow some soldiers, not get him involved directly! This is _my_ operation."

"What operation would that be?" the lizard asked, narrowing his eyes. "I don't juzt let anybeazt 'borrow' my zoldierz, Zteep. I muzt know what they are doing at all timez. I zuppoze you wouldn't be able to underztand, of courze, not being able to keep track of–"

Steep grabbed a bow out of a rat's paws and thrust it at Devonshire.

"You will have your soldiers back in ten minutes, Captain. If they are as competent as you are so sure they are, you have nothing to fear. Now I highly suggest returning to your duty of finding a way past the palace's moat, and let me get on with my job, mm?"

"Fine. I will hold you to it, Zteep. Ten minutez."

"Urgh," Steep said, watching the lizard saunter off and get distracted by something scuttling in the gutters. "Makes my fur crawl, doesn't it, beasts like him being allowed... alright. Form up behind me. I want you in pairs of three. Devonshire, you're with those two here. You two, come with me. Give me your bow and quiver. You, give Devonshire your quiver as well."

"Why the sudden desire for exercise?" Devonshire asked, as they began to march towards the Seventh Regiment's bakery-barracks. "And I'm still wounded. Wounded soldiers are supposed to be war heroes and exempt from over-strenuous labour."

"Just a bit of a morale-boosting exercise, Lieutenant."

The marten eyed her sullenly. "This isn't team building, is it? I hate those, they always let me fall. Besides the fur is still growing back on my tail. Do you realize how embarrassing that is?"

"Can't imagine. But this is about as far from team building as you can get, I think," Steep said guardedly. "Before I go on, you haven't developed any... _emotional_ attachments to any of the woodlanders, have you?"

"Emotional, how?"

"You know... emotional."

"Why in 'gates would I get emotional with woodlanders?" The marten's brow furrowed, before giving way to an expression of horror. "Steep! Really! With _woodlanders_? They're practically food!"

It took her a moment to understand, and then she didn't know whether to laugh or throw up.

"No! Fates! Ick, no! Devonshire! That's disgusting, ew, ew!" She pinched the scab on her nose and took a deep breath. "No, I mean, you wouldn't be adverse to shooting them in the head if you had to?"

"That depends. Do I get a biscuit?"

"They're SLA."

Several soldiers paused in their march, causing a ripple of consternation before they strengthened their stride. Devonshire gave a slow, nasty grin.

"How many will I get to shoot?"

"Just the one," Steep said.

"That's not fair! I'm an officer! I should get at least two–"

"Everybeast, listen up! I want each team to take one grass-muncher each! Two of you tackle them, hold them down. If it takes all three to catch them at first, then do what you must. Archers are to fire at the heart, or if you can't keep them still, wherever it will be fatal. Don't let them stay alive if you can help it. Devonshire and I will be archers. Any objections?"

A rousing chorus of "no"s sounded, and one bright-eyed stoat asked, "Can we keep their ears?"

"I want me a squirrel tail!"

"A nice moleskin belt'd go great with my mess jacket..."

"If someone's having trouble shooting one of them, can I stab 'em?"

Steep's spirits took off like a drunken shorebird; a lot of confused circling around, tipping over and flapping before it finally got up to speed and lurched into the sky. Maybe being a Captain wasn't so bad, if she just got to do things like this with her soldiers. Nevermind all that rubbish about divisions and high ground and stupid awful open warfare—a pawful of brave beasts to lead into a simple, intense situation with one goal, one purpose, that was when things went right.

Hushing them, she crept towards the bakery's front door. She kicked it open.

The bungle of voices stopped short, every eye turning to the weasel marching through the doorway. Steep paced the length of floor, nodding here and there in a vaguely approving way at how nicely they'd gotten prepared.

She stood in front of the main display case and turned around, smiling. _What was that term Lock once used... ah, yes. Fish in a barrel._

She whistled.

Behind her, thirty vermin soldiers piled in from the kitchens. Fourty more burst through the front.

"Captain Steep! What is the meaning of this?" Llu demanded, as two burly ferrets pinned her to the wall. The mouse's legs flailed uselessly, unable to even reach the ground.

"A little bird told me," Steep began, before realising how stupid the words sounded when actually spoken aloud—not to mention the futility of explaining the situation to one who knew perfectly well what they'd done. That was the kind of time-wasting that ruined perfectly good plans.

Throughout the rest of the room, arrows were being notched. Steep had ordered there be no hesitation, no waiting for her command once they were doing the deed. The flit and splunk of arrows puncturing flesh and bone could just be heard over the shouts and screams.

Steep was having a bit of trouble notching her arrow. Bow and arrows had never been her strong point as a soldier. They were cowards' weapons—they just so happened to also be the least messy when it came to executions.

"I'm not SLA! Please, Captain, you've got to understand, I had no idea this..."

"Every last grass-munchin' one of you wheezin' barksniffers is SLA as far as I'm concerned," Steep muttered. "You're either a traitor to us, or you're a traitor to your own kind. Either way, you're all traitors. And traitors die."

The mouse trembled with the effort of fighting the ferrets' grip, her buckteeth jutting determinedly. The ferrets slammed her into the wall again, knocking the wind out of her. Llu struggled a moment more, then hung her head with a sigh.

"Guess I didn't have much longer, anyhow. Make it quick, will you?"

Steep narrowed her eye—the request alone drew out some strange notion to put the mouse through a long, grueling death. Steep quelled it almost immediately. She'd gotten the arrow notched, the string drawn, had it aimed—two feet away, there was no chance she was going to miss—and let go.

It was suddenly very quiet. Steep lowered the bow.

"Is that all of them? Count twenty-three?"

"I've got mine, Captain," Devonshire reported. "Bloody mole, the thing actually bit me!"

"That's good." Steep wiped her paws off on the front of her uniform, frowning. They had gotten entirely too sweaty for such a simple task. "Good job, everybeast. Devonshire, have this place cleaned up and have their personal affections delivered to my cot in the medical tent. You lot may take tails and ears, but leave the rest, there's no need to make things messier than they already are."

"Why do _I_ have to be the one to clean up? My ribs still hurt and my arm is bleeding."

"Because Maxwell needs his soldiers back and _I've_ got to inform General Lock of the situation."

Devonshire smirked. "Oh. Well then, I'm sure you'll have lots of fun."

"Go snap another rib, Devonshire." She pondered telling him about the biscuits in the kitchen, but figured he'd find them himself.

Steep grinned manically as she left the bakery. It really didn't matter, now, whether or not Lock approved of her doings. She'd taken care of the SLA problem in the army. He could rail at her all he liked. She'd done good by her country, for once. She'd avenged, in a roundabout way, that wretched night back home...

She was halfway to Lock's office when the town clock began tolling the hour.

"Ah, blast it..."

Clearing out the SLA was not going to bring her any commendations if she lost all the prisoners due to not properly overseeing the changing of the guard. Sticking her tongue out, she broke into a sprint.

~*~*~*~*~

The wildcat was dying. Alone, in a bare cell, without even the comfort of straw to ease her through Dark Forest's gates.

It was her own fault for staring, Steep supposed. The smoke never would have awoken the wildcat if she'd just walked past the cell and been on her way. But no, she had to pause and watch. The telltale signs of imminent death were becoming all too familiar. And now she only had four cigars left.

Steep lit the end of one and held it through the bars. The cat's paw reached out, trembling, and took it.

"Thanks," she wheezed. Steep nodded.

There'd already been somebeast by to interrogate her. The Southern Army had done a commendable job in hauling her off the battlefield, patching her wounds, and keeping her alive despite the sporadic comas that threatened to bring her over the edge. This time was different. There was a certainty to the cat's expression, rather than the blank, slack-jawed one she gave whenever she had blacked out before.

"'s funny," the cat went on. "Mistress of the Keys... trapped here by a simple—_hhhk_!—bolting mechanism. That's _ironic_, that is. Can I ask a favour?"

"What?" Steep said softly.

"If you win, make sure to get Ruston for me. Hook-pawed hussy left me to die... Figures."

_Figures_, Steep thought. _No wonder it's so familiar._

"No," the weasel said. "I can't do that."

"Worth a try..."

"Ruston is mine to kill."

"Ah. Everybeast wants a piece of—_hhhk!_—her, it seems..." Sil closed her eyes, her breath slowing. "Even her own mate pro'lly wants her guts strung up a flagpole..."

"Regi?" Steep said, surprised. "But he's–" She clamped her jaw shut. _Stupid, stupid..._

Sil cracked an eye open. "Ah, 's right... you're Miniver's daughter. Steep the Unstoppable. Heh. You don't look like you're on fire." The wildcat leaned against the bars and stared at the ceiling.

Steep flicked her cigar clean and turned to leave.

"Wait."

"What now?"

"Don't go..." Steep turned back. Sil was still only looking at the roof. "Stay with me, please. A while longer..."

_They left her to die. They packed up their things and left their wounded to die alone and cold. What kind of beasts do that? What kind of beasts would tear someone's daughter away from her, in those final moments, and leave her to die like that?_

"Okay."

It was not minutes. Steep's cigar burned to a stub; she lit another one. She let the wildcat talk, when she _could_ talk. The coughs came more often, wetter and longer, and blood began to stain Sil's chin.

Steep must have nodded off. The smokey haze addled her vision and thoughts, and most likely the thoughts of the wildcat, as her ramblings covered a wider range of topics. Steep tuned them out, until a familiar name snapped her out of it.

"...found him writing this letter, full of our strategies and organizational plans. Poor kit didn't—_hhhk!_—stand a chance, not against her. And then she turned him over to Markook. Fates. What kind of mother does that? It didn't even help, the idiot—_hhhk!_—wouldn't budge an inch before Markook went too far. Shoulda hired the Wotfers, in my opinion. There's some beasts know how to torture a fellow and keep him alive when they're done. And you know, at least IceRain got a proper funeral. Dumped into—_hhhk!_—into the harbour like a common sack of garbage—that any way to treat a handsome young lad, even if he _was_ a traitor? Now, Blithe, he was—_hhhk!_—my favourite of Ruston's brood, even if he was a bit of..."

Steep stared straight ahead. Her eye stung, her whiskers were moist, but she did not blink.

Pylaris was dead.

She knew this. She knew it the moment she read his letter. It wouldn't have been in that satchel if he could have given it to her any other way. Somehow she'd been able to... to what? Forget? Ignore it?

But to hear somebeast else talk about it...

What was she supposed to feel? In all those plays and romantic stories she'd read in her youth, none of the cliche reactions seemed to fit: 'The bottom dropped out of her world...' No. 'Her guts sank into her boots...' No. What about 'Grief gripped her heart in its vice-like grip, never letting go even as she screamed, writhing in its grip...' No. 'The circling sharks of sorrow tore her soul into pieces...' No. Maybe just something simple about cold and endless darkness, or fury and fire tearing her asunder, or just a classic rending of clothes and good old-fashioned sobbing? No.

Well, what then? Go into a catatonic state, sealing her mind away from every possible sensation? Scream and cry and tear things off walls and throw them out the window and fling herself at the walls, as was her usual method of dealing with frustration?

She shouldn't have listened.

In the end, she decided she may as well pick one of the better cliches and run with it.

"When you see Ruston in Hellgates," she said, grabbing the wildcat's uniform collar and lifting her up pulling her face against the cell bars, "give her this message from me and Pylaris."

"What–"

Ripping the cigar out of the wildcat's mouth, Steep jammed the glowing end into Sil's eye, pushing until the length of leaf crumpled and dust dribbled out between her claws. The yowls drew guards from the other rooms, and before Steep could so much as turn to tell them to bugger off, one of them had stuck his sword through the bars and gutted Sil.

"Are you okay, Captain?" the young weasel cried, pulling her away from the bars. "She didn't hurt you, did she? Captain?"

"'m fine!"

She shouldn't have stayed.

Steep pulled away from his touch, staggered through the prison until she came outside again. She fell to all four paws, and threw up in the street. The guards in front of the doors rushed to her side, hauling her upright.

"Get her to the infirmary tent," somebeast shouted. The slurry-splashed cobblestones blurred beneath her footpaws.

Like it or not, she found out, you didn't get to choose how to react.

~*~*~*~*~

Steep sat up in her cot, swung her legs over, and held her head in her paws, elbows resting on her knees. When she was able to open her eyes, she was greeted by the sight of the Devonshires staring mutely at her. The elder turned his head away, but the kit kept staring.

"Erk," she called, her voice hoarse from cotton—mouth. The lizard scuttled out of the gloom.

"Yez, ma'am. Your bath iz waiting. Your other uniform iz hanging up for you az well."

Steep glanced down at herself. She hadn't changed into a nightgown. She sighed, peeling the wet fabric of her skirt away from her leg.

"We thought it bezt not to bother you," Erk said, head bowed in shame.

"Captain," Devonshire said, as Steep stood up.

"What?"

"Erm... Nothing. Never mind. Em."

Her eye narrowed. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"I'm... Sorry about Pylaris." He paused and one of his ears twitched. "Em. Do you want to talk...? Or em... want.. er... a... hu—talk. Em."

Keinruf sneezed.

"No."

Erk scurried forth to replace the bedding on Steep's cot as the weasel walked away to the corner of the tent, where a canvas curtain had been hung up to allow privacy for surgeries and toiletries.

The bath was only warm; she had woken much later than she usually did. Erk took her uniform to clean it, and someone had put a mug of grog on the stool next to the soap and sponges. Steep ignored it.

After soaking for a few minutes, she reached over the edge of the tub and pulled the portrait out of her soiled uniform's pocket. She did her best not to glance at it, turning it face-down. She held it under the water until the paints began to swirl, and then crumpled it between her paws and pulled it apart in strips, leaving them to float freely until Erk changed the water for the next beast to use the tub.

Her uniform from the battle was darker than she remembered it being, even in the infirmary's mood lighting. She shuddered to think that there was still some dried Imperial blood hidden between the fabric, but tugged it on anyway.

Pip was waiting for her outside.

"From Scott," he said, holding up a letter. She slipped it into her pocket without a second glance.

"'Good morning, Pip, lovely weather we're having'," the plover muttered to himself. "I thought you'd be happy I convinced them—well, Scott's letter convinced them—to give you grog."

"I don't drink before going on duty, Mr. Pleasantrie."

The plover cocked his head. "Are you feeling okay, Captain?"

"No."

"I'm sorry to hear that... Um, about the woodlanders..."

"They're all dead."

Pip gaped. "What?"

"They're all dead," Steep repeated calmly.

"You kiled them _all_?" Pip cried, clamping his beak shut suddenly, as if keeping something down.

"It was the only way to be sure."

"I told you not to!"

Steep paused and turned around slowly.

"Sorry, _are you my Captain_, Mr. Pleasantrie?"

"No, Steep. I'm your _friend_."

"You're my subordinate. Don't confuse your station, Cabin _Bird_. Go finish your mail duties."

Leaving the spluttering plover, Steep stepped into Lock's office. The fox barely glanced at her as she walked across the room to where her beret and stripes had been hung on the wall. She swiveled the hat onto her head and clipped the pin back on her uniform.

"Captain Steep," Major Darcy scolded, rushing in behind her with a sheaf of papers clutched to his chest. "Really, would you _learn_ to kno–"

"I executed the Seventh Regiment, sir," Steep said, saluting.

Any number of emotions she was expecting from Lock never quite came. Instead, he just sat there, leaning his head on an upright arm, and with his tone dry as vermouth, said, "Why?"

"They were SLA, sir."

Lock blinked. "That's... an adequate reason. What, all of them?"

"Probably. I thought I should be thorough. Well, except for Devonshire, who obviously not, and Pleasantrie, who alerted me to their purpose."

"I suppose the question then is, how did Mr. Pleasantrie know?" Lock's voice dropped into a mutter. "Better yet, how did we _not_ know? Major Darcy, bring up the files on the woodlander regiment and who hired them in the first place?"

"Yes, sir," the rat said, scuttling to do the General's bidding.

"From what I gather, sir, they were trying to coerce Mr. Pleasantrie to join, having thought him trustworthy enough to be loyal to their cause. It seems they were mistaken."

"For something who started life with the single purpose of becoming the pride of the Emperor's banquets, it seems our dear plover has a multitude of uses. Inform him he may have his previous rank back."

"Yes, sir."

"And how are _you_, Captain? Feeling better yet?"

"No, sir."

"Good," he said. Steep couldn't say for certain, but she was getting the feeling Lock was paying more attention to her tone than her actual words. "I was worr—concerned that you were going to do something rash."

Steep considered her recent actions.

"And you don't think I did?"

"Executing an entire regiment of not only rebels, but members of an organization whose goal is our Empire's dismemberment is not nearly as offensive as, for instance, killing a mop wielding civilian." The fox paused for a moment or two, his eyes flickering up to her face, resting on her beret.

"Very commendable," he continued. Steep could have sworn she saw a smile begin to form, but she wrote it off as her imagination. "You may lose your head during an actual battle, but you have full control of your mind in small scale operations. I've got a mission for you, something I think will make best use of your competencies..."


	63. It Shouldn't Surprise You at All

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 62. It Shouldn't Surprise You at All, You Know  
**

_by Gloria  
_

From the outside, the palace at Amarone appeared as an enormous, prickling, albino hedgehog - its short, squat body sporting maroon-painted spikes that stretched up so high, they threatened to puncture the sky itself. For the daring few who craned their necks back far enough to see, tiny flags winked and waved at them from the tips of the spikes. Closer to the ground, the eaves of the palace jutted out and were home to a melee of vermin engaged in battle, revelry, and debauchery of the worst sort, frozen forever in white marble – a testament to the morals of the Imperium. Still further down, the main entrance rose eight badgers high. Made of a massive tree stolen from the Mahsterious Southern Continent too many years ago for anybeast to really care about remembering, the door had been stained, painted, stripped, re-painted, gilded, un-gilded, and re-stained so many times that it looked rather like eight badgers had been sick on it before putting it up. Still, it did capture the attention - even the grandest MinoInns had yet to discover a way to recreate the particular shade of yellorediadin* that splotched its surface.

Surrounding the palace like twin, geometrically-inclined serpents were a thick granite wall covered in sticker vines, and a moat, which was, allegedly, home to pike and octopi. At the very least, the water was dangerous enough that the Emperor had declared it "an aquatic anomaly of malicious intent that, we suspect, leads to Hellgates." It wasn't such a far off guess. Even in winter, the surface glouped and glopped at the natives of Amarone, defying the frigid temperatures that would freeze lesser liquids.

Inside, white marble, lapis lazuli, and jade accented the otherwise pale pink walls. It looked a bit like a coral reef with willing sea creatures adding a tasteful dash of color and life to the decor. A white marble floor, polished to the point of hazard, spread out in all directions, golden tiles directing the way to the most important rooms. And above these, on gold-plated rods, hung off-white curtains, trimmed at the bottom with maroon. The loose silk billowed out in even the slightest breeze, filling the otherwise empty halls with a soothing rustle.

Or they would have been empty if not for the group that tromped down the grandest corridor of all. The trio was comprised of Cynthia, leading the way, Gloria, and Wazzock - Wright had been left behind to organize the troops and get the wounded proper medical attention. Lined with pictures of the Emperor, the passage led to a set of dark mahogany doors that were flanked by two stoats in the ceremonial armor of the Stoatorian Guard. They held their jeweled spears at the ready and frowned at the beasts who approached.

"How then, Eugene? Coarse?" Cynthia waved. "Got Captain Ruston and Wazzy here to speak to the Emperor."

"Oh! 'Ey dere Cap'n!" the stoat on the left acknowledged, waving back merrily. "Been a blue moon since yew been up 'ere. I reckon yer in a spot o' trouble, dough. Lord Baltsar don't look s'blithe as 'is name ternight." He snickered at his own joke.

"Open the door, Mr. Coarsefur, or Lord Baltsar will be hearing how ye like t'poke fun at his given name," Gloria said, glowering at the Guardsbeast – it was easy to glower, she found, when her shoulder wound was aching and still in need of proper treatment. In fact, both she and Wazzock could do with some tending to, not the least because they were tracking crumbs of dried blood and dirt wherever they stepped.

"Y-yes, ma'am! Sorry, ma'am!" Coarsefur and Eugene scrambled to do her bidding.

The open entryway led into the throne room, a grand affair decorated much like the rest of the palace, but with an enormous chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Made of quartz and lit with hundreds of white candles, the costly masterpiece had required the whole of the Stoatorian Guard to haul it up after its completion some twenty years ago. On the floor, a plush maroon carpet led up to...

_Emperor Fontesque Eckhart Voss the First,_ Gloria thought, the majesty of the Imperium's eternal monarch tumbling down upon her like a golden fog. She had met him before, of course, but each time was a privilege - nay, an _honor_.

Slouched comfortably on his throne, the russet dogfox was dressed in a golden doublet with black breeches and white tights. His footpaws were covered by buckled shoes, while a maroon cape – edged with the feathers of only the most loyal Gulls in the Imperial Roost – hung off his diminutive shoulders. Atop his regal brow sat the pride of jewelers the sea over.

The Emperor's Crown was made of three bands of gold twisted together by the expert paws of some long-forgotten craftsbeast. It was inlaid with a thinner twist of silver that rose up at three points where rubies had been wrapped into the metalwork and fused in place. Many a beast had tried to steal it. Many a beast had also died horribly in the attempt.

Gloria had to resist the urge to rush forward and prostrate herself before the greatest beast in the Imperium, mindful of the ministers that surrounded him and glared down their collective snouts as the stoat and rats approached, then knelt. The Captain of the Guard bent over as far as her wound allowed, which still was not quite as far as she would have liked.

"Pish posh!" Voss snorted after silence stretched out for a full ten seconds. "Enough of that please, everybeast! Rise, ladies, gentlebeast! I've more important things to do than stare at your heads. Now, Captain Ruston, you're looking a bit bloody this morning. Shall we press on with things? You lost Bully Harbour."

"Yer Grace, I can expl-"

"You were not given leave to speak, Gloria." Baltsar cut her off, the frown on his weaselly face deepening.

The stoat clamped her jaw shut and stared down at her footpaws. It was one of Blithe Baltsar's more sinister qualities that he could channel the spirit of her father from beyond Hellgates in even the simplest reprimands. A moment passed, the captain knowing better than to apologize. She'd played that game with her _own_ kits.

"Now, as I was saying," the Emperor continued, "you lost Bully Harbour and set a good portion of it on fire."

"To be fair," Wazzock piped up, "the Bilge was on fire when I and my crew got there, and Ms. Gloria didn't happen to be involved... and the collapse of the Ministry of Innovations was actually my fault. Sorry about that." He shrugged apologetically at Colonel Iskarot Arbach, the Minister of Innovations and the only other vulpine in the room.

"Shut up, Wazzy!" Gloria whispered fiercely, stamping on the rat's footpaw.

"Isn't it awkward to stand on two different levels?" the Captain of the _Stormchaser_ inquired, glancing down to where their boots joined.

The lady stoat was tensing up to punch the rat when Baltsar intervened. "That will be enough from both of you."

"Yes, well..." Voss glanced at the MinoWar, then nodded. "It's very noble of you to take the blame for your friend, Cap-"

"We are _not_ friends," Gloria interjected before she could stop herself. It was reflex - pure reflex. She clapped a paw over her snout a moment too late.

"Of course not," Wazzock agreed. "We're _best_ friends!"

He failed to wither under Baltsar's heated gaze and the weasel eventually gave up, directing his full ire on the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard.

"Yes." The royal fox eyed the pair, then blinked a few times. "Very noble. In any case, Captain Ruston was left in charge of the Harbour. Therefore, all blame for damages falls on Captain Ruston's shoulders. And then, of course, there was the matter of the battle at the Clover Estates. You lost again."

_No need t'rub it in,_ the lady stoat wanted to mumble.

"And if that wasn't enough, it was your own son who turncoated on the Imperium. I must say, Captain Ruston, very poor showing. Very poor, indeed! However! I am mindful that you faced a very great enemy and that, perhaps, you were unprepared for the responsibilities bestowed upon you.

Gloria opened her mouth to protest, but shut it again when she noted Baltsar's raised eyebrow.

"Therefore, you shall retain your rank of Captain of Guard. You have served well in that role since you took it up. Blithe and I are in agreement." He glanced at the weasel.

_No demotion?_ It was better than she could have hoped for.

"However, since you are incapable of running an army, you are hereby relieved of that duty. We have decided upon a suitable replacement. One, I am told, who has shown remarkable ingenuity and fortitude in the face of our foes, risking life and tail to deliver you safely to the palace. One whose outrageous oddities are a boon against an outrageous foe!"

_He can't mean... He couldn't possibly mean..._

"Captain Wazzock J. Pike." The Emperor grinned at the rat. "You are now the commander of our land forces. Make a good show of it, eh?"

Wazzock paused from attempting to straighten the exceptionally frayed feather on his cap. "Pardon?"

"Yer not serious!"

"I'm quite serious, Captain Ruston," Voss said, sniffing deeply. "Captain Pike has proved himself competent - more competent than you, certainly - in rising to the occasion. Really, it's nothing to whine about. You'll still be in charge of the Stoatorian Guard; you'll just answer to Captain Pike from henceforth."

"Isn't that an interesting turn of events, Ms. Gloria?"

_Kill him. I'm going t'kill him._

"We get to trade places for a dash! Want to trade hats, too?"

_He can't be in charge if he's dead, aye?_

"Back a week ago, Mr. Soriss and I...well... Do you _have_ a hat?"

_No. He might find a way..._

"Ms. Gloria?"

Her eyes shot up and she met Wazzock's carefully oblivious grin. _But I'm going t'kill him._

--- --- ---

Unfortunately, her shoulder had quite a lot to say about such strenuous activities as murdering insane Navy captains. One week after she had been told by the greatest beast in the Imperium that she was more incompetent than a lackadaisical rat whose most notable achievement had been rescuing a crate of tea from an un-drunk, salt watery fate, Gloria stormed into Baltsar's room. Her wound had been healing under the supervision of the palace doctors and now the pain had receded to a dull throb from the violent stabbing it had been when they'd first reopened, cleaned-out, and stitched-up the thing.

"We need t'talk, sir," the stoat began, shutting the door and turning to face the Minister of War. He was seated in a chair and reading... something. He didn't put it down or respond as she strode forward and stood at attention before him. "I've had t'watch Cap'n Pike try t'lead the land forces over the past week, and it's been pathetic. We've lost most of Amarone, for Fates' sake! If anybeast should be in charge, it should be yer fine self, or..."

"Or?" He turned a page and continued reading.

"Or..." She began to fidget, pulling at the buttons on her coat. The situation reminded her just a bit too much of a day some 15 years ago. _He's not Da',_ the stoat corrected herself sharply. _Da' is dead and buried and _yer_ Cap'n of the Guard now._ "Or me, sir!"

He glanced over his scroll. "And what would you do if you were back in charge, Gloria?"

He was considering it, then? The captain smirked, bringing her paw to her chest in a clenched fist. "Well, sir, I'd be leading a party t'rescue those beasties holed up in the South Guard Tower. Cut down a fair few Southies and rescue our own. 'S just the sort of encouragement we need while we're waiting for Jelliko and Regi t'mop up Bully Harbour!"

Baltsar considered her for a moment, then rolled his eyes and returned to his reading. "How utterly predictable."

"What's that s'posed t'mean, sir?" She could feel her hackles beginning to rise. Even if it was Lord Baltsar, there was only so much condescension that a self-respecting stoat could take.

Sighing, the weasel tossed his scroll aside and stood. Gloria stepped back instinctively and took up a defensive posture – _Watch the paws! Is it a punch or a... a..._ – and then grimaced in embarrassment a moment later.

"You. Predictable. Violent. I do believe you're clever enough to fill in the rest for yourself. Really, I'd hoped over the years you'd have become a touch more subtle." The minister scratched his neck. "But I suppose the old adage applies: A wildcat never changes his stripes."

"He'll be changing 'em if he can get his paws on enough dye." She blinked, then frowned. Baltsar followed suit.

_Where did that...?_ The jovial features of a persistent brown rat crept across her mind's eye. She shoved the figment of her imagination off the nearest figurative cliff.

"What I'm trying t'say, sir, is that I want t'do m'job. Let me do what I'm good at. I'm sick and tired of letting a _Navy_beast run an army!"

"Request denied. You'll follow Captain Pike's lead. He has yet to kill anybeast needlessly. Our troops are not so limitless as you might imagine, Gloria."

"What?" Gloria's brows knit together in confusion. Had Lord Baltsar always been this obstinate? _Why the _'Gates_ is the Minister of War refusing t'run the keelhauling _war_ himself?_ "M'Lord, ye can't just..."

A raised eyebrow.

"There are... We're...!"

An upturned nose.

"Can't ye just..."

A wrinkling of his snout.

_Shouting never worked on Da', either._

"I'll not be winning this, will I, sir?"

A nod. "Lovely! We understand each other. Now, Gloria, there's a certain matter that you _can_ make yourself useful in. I've been informed that there's a member of the Ministry of Innovations among the beasts you brought from Bully Harbour. He was, in fact, the creature who directed you to head for Amarone in search of this weapon he claims exists. Why did you not tell me of this directly? I had to find out from your Last Quartermaster."

"Ye'd told me not t'inquire as such," the stoat said, crossing her arms slowly. The smile she directed at the minister did not reach her eyes. "I'd not disobey a direct order, sir. _Predictable_ am I."

"Captain..."

The stoat snapped to attention once more. "Aye, sir! I'll fetch him."

"Very good. You'll bring him to the Pavilion and we'll interrogate him-"

"Minor problem with that, sir."

"Oh?"

"The lad talks nonsense."

--- --- ---

The ministers and Emperor had once more assembled, this time beneath the glass ceiling of the Pavilion. Heated by warm, moist air continually pumped beneath the floor and through the walls, the room called to mind memories of Humidor. Likewise, the lush evergreens growing within, and the brightly colored butterflies that flitted to and fro from purple, pink, and white blossoms, gave the illusion of an island far removed from the frigid Primary world outside.

Gloria, Switch, and Wazzock - he had insisted that Switch was a friend and required moral support - sat with the leaders of the Imperium, the lady stoat sweating for the heat.

"Commander Switch, me old chum!" Colonel Arbach smiled at the rat. "Didn't know you were still around. Thought we'd lost you in that misfile incident a few years ago. Sneaky fellow! I'd been wondering why my office was always so organized. How's your mum, then?"

"Morbi pellentesque, dui ac consequat eleifend, dui nisl laoreet dui, id semper elit nibh eget metus. Pellentesque ac lectus et sapien adipiscing aliquam," Switch explained.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Wazzock commiserated, patting the other rat on the back. "Still, there are others out there."

"What did he say?" Brewtus, Minister of Commerce, wanted to know.

"He doesn't know, m'Lord," Gloria rubbed her temple. "He's guessing."

"Quite right! But that _did_ sound a bit like she'd lost her favorite tea cozy. Dreadful lot, that."

She smacked the back of Wazzock's head out of habit.

"Captain Ruzton, iz that any way to treat the commander of our army?" Akilina hissed, baring her teeth in a feral grin.

_Oh, she must be loving this, the scaly fly-catcher,_ Gloria seethed, pursing her lips. "No, Ladyship. Sorry, Cap'n Pike."

"No harm done, Rusty. I know it's just your way."

"To get on with things..." Beandish Arnold, Minister of Niceties, encouraged.

"Yes!" Colonel Arbach clapped his paws together and leaned forward. "Now, Switch, you have some information on a weapon that the previous Colonel Arbach was developing?"

"Acru." Switch nodded.

"And it's here in the palace?"

"Acru."

"Where exactly?"

"Nam dictum leo non erat dapibus non bibendum enim posuere. Nullam fermentum vulputate felis, non facilisis sem hendrerit nec."

"I see..." The fox sat back and glanced at the Emperor. "He's not much use like this, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Iskarot," Voss grumbled. "I can hear that for myself. Is this some sort of foreign language?" He frowned down his regal snout at Switch. "Are you _foreign_, sir."

"Risus." The rat shook his head vehemently.

"Just a family dialect," Wazzock put in.

"We went through this b'fore, Yer Grace," Gloria explained. "He can't speak nor write, but I ken he can draw."

"Splendid idea, Captain Ruston!" the Emperor exclaimed. "Iskarot! Get this fellow a quill and parch-"

"Quisque!" Switch held up his paws. "Quisque sagittis posuere interdum. Proin ultricies ligula eget tortor ultrices consectetur ac at mi."

"Oh, yer _joking_, right?" the stoat groaned, slapping her forehead.

"What did he say?" the ministers and Emperor demanded in unison.

"He says he doesn't actually know where it is in the palace," Wazzock said. "But I'd bet a whisker for a wagon the chap can tell us how to get at the thing once we find where it is."

"I say... you gathered all that from his babbling?" Arnold queried.

"Oh, of course not." The Captain of the _Stormchaser_ waved a paw. "But it's really the only dramatic plot twist that made sense."

--- --- ---

"What a waste of time," Gloria muttered as she marched Switch out of the room, Wazzock drifting after them. "Yer a waste of time," she told the incomprehensible rat directly.

"In hac habitasse platea dictumst," he apologized.

"Oh, shut up."

"Now, now, Ms. Gloria," Wazzock chided. "He's trying his best."

"His best? His best would be making sense of all that gobbledygook! How'm I s'posed t'show Lord Baltsar I'm competent when I...!" She trailed off, suddenly wary of the company.

"Been a bit hard, eh?" Wazzock asked. "I know you're not quite used to it. Tell the truth, I'm not either - still not even used to jumping from deckswab to the _Stormchaser_'s captain - but it's fun, right? Trading places. It's a bit like trading mates. Would you try Cy for a bit, or would that be awkward? Rather nice cook, though."

Gloria stopped and the others stumbled to a halt. "Ye really don't understand, d'ye, Wazzy?" She shook her head, smiling with her teeth. "Move it along, Mr. Switch." A flick of her claw and the rat was scuttling away.

"I've worked m'whole life t'be Cap'n of the Guard," the lady stoat began. "T'prepare for this moment when _I_ would be the one defending m'country and m'Emperor against a beast like General Lock. Years of training and studying and doing every single thing I was told, and still getting it wrong half the time. Still getting punished b'cause I wasn't _quite_ good enough. Fighting for each rank _b'cause_ Da' was the Cap'n of the Guard, not _in spite_ of it."

She stabbed the air with her hook, grimacing as a lance of pain shot up her neck. "But _you_? Oh, ye talk t'some crabs. Ye do yer song-and-dance routine for some mongrels. Ye _luck_ int' it, Wazzy. Just like everything! Yer the lucky one."

"Well, but... you had your kits," he pointed out. "I've never been quite that lucky."

"Oh, aye." She was nodding, the kind that shook her whole body and made her want to scream. "M'kits. Let's talk about m'kits, Wazzy. Blithe was a moron. I killed him. Deephart was a good lad. He died. IceRain was a smart-mouthed snot who chopped off m'paw. I killed her. Pylaris was a turncoat... I might as well've killed him. There! I said it. It was _my_ fault." She slammed her paw against her chest. Somehow, with just Wazzock, it didn't matter quite as much that the tears stung her eyes or the words caught in her throat.

"Oh, I'm s'lucky, Wazzy! Ye have _no_ idea." She turned on her heel and stalked away, hating him - hating that a beast so perceptive could be so incredibly dense.

--- --- ---

* In 1643, Blewbury Picken, the current MinoNice, developed a new name for the color as the others "Just really didn't seem to fit it, you see?" This was praised as a major step forward in the arts and, henceforth, The Blewbury Picken Festival was held every year in the Imperium in late summer... Although it seems to have become more an excuse for kits to stuff their faces with ripe berries, than a memorial to celebrate the accomplishments of a great vermin. Curious.


	64. Chain of Command

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 63. Chain of Command  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

Nothing ever went as planned. Wazzock held this belief close to his heart and remembered it every day. If a beast needed any proof in this maxim, he had only to look back a few weeks and consider where he had stood before, and where he stood now. For instance, the rat captain never suspected that he would be standing in a grand dining hall, next to a long table of rich mahogany trimmed with amber and brass, a chandelier overhead, gleaming brightly, half the wicks lit, scattering light through hundreds of crystals, setting a nice mood for the room.

By the time Cynthia arrived, Wazzock lay in the middle of the table, looking up at the scenery of the ceiling mural. In his paws, he clutched a silver spice shaker shaped like a vulpine.

"Here for a snack, Wazzy?"

"No, just thinking," Wazzock stated. "Do you believe that the scene above is to represent the inner workings of the vermin spirit, the struggle between instinct and intellect fighting within the soul, or is just a statement of relentless violence of the world about us?"

"I believe the Emperor's request was: 'Make it so gory that a beast would get queasy at just a glance.'"

"I think I can see that... explains the entrails. I believe the artist had some deeper meaning while composing his art."

"Rumor says he was so drunk that he fell off his ladder a dozen times. I believe you can still see the stains on the carpet from the dozenth time. The Emperor said it added personality."

Wazzock cocked his head at an angle.

"Ms. Gloria is mad at me."

"Of course she's mad at you."

"No, not the regular mad. The real mad. I think she wants to kill me."

"Again, I'm not seeing the irregularity here."

"Well, usually she means it _metaphorically_, Cy."

"Wazzy…" Cy removed Wazzock's hat and nuzzled him between the ears. Wazzock's right leg kicked. He turned his face up and their snouts met. He licked her nose and she licked his back. They smiled.

"You taste minty," Wazzock commented.

"I should. Some creature keeps sending me strange bath salts, though they must know I despise such sordid affairs such as bathing. What sensible beast would think I'd use the stuff to cover up my own pungent aroma."

"I love it when you use vocabulary like that."

"Really? Well I guess I should get back to saying 'luggage' more. You really are an infectious creature, Wazzy. I can't stand you for that, you know. I really want to kick you in the nethers whenever you get that gooey smile on your face. And I don't fight the impulse normally, mind you. But I really can't get rid of you. You couldn't get a much better find than me, Wazzy." She ripped off one of his whiskers. "Any other lass would have ripped out your tongue by now."

"Didn't you almost do that, Cy?"

"The point is, I _didn't_."

"I remembered it when I was pretending to be a gardener and was welding some shears. Ooo, would you like to be preserved in greenery in the palace garden once spring comes around?"

"No."

"I wonder if Ms. Gloria… are you growling, Cy?"

"Perhaps."

"I didn't know you could growl."

"I'm full of surprises, Wazzy. Speaking of which, would you like at little…" She nibbled at Wazzock's right ear. "…snack?"

"I'm uncertain. I need to decide tactics for the troops this evening, though I believe my weapon needs some consideration."

"Ask and ye shall receive," Cy cooed. "Allow me to show you." She put her arms about Wazzock, sleek yet muscled, rubbing down his chest, down to his belt, across his buckle, until her digits encountered his sheathed weapon. She then pulled out the cutlass and examined the blade. She frowned.

"This had not seen a lick of use. What have you been defending yourself with this past week?"

"Cy, I'm complete rubbish with the blade. I fear I'm going to cut off my tail, and I really like my tail. I'm teaching it tricks."

"I know better than to ask, Wazzy. But I believe we can get a snack, discuss tactics, and get a new weapon all in one fell swoop. I know just the beast to ask. Come along." She shoved him off the table and started towards the arched entryway, cutlass spinning in her grasp. Wazzock soon scampered after her, patting his bruised hat.

He continued to hold his hat protectively as they arrived at the kitchen. He found there to be an unsettling amount of food items on fire. It explained why this kitchen was in the basement and all surrounding walls were made of stone, layered with soot. "This is Comb's territory. Watch your paws. All surfaces are hot," Cynthia warned.

Wazzock didn't need to be told twice. He tried to focus on the fox, who bodily dug into a trunk that appeared deeper than it ought to be. A good dozen weapons lay scattered on the floor. The fox, Comb, glanced over his shoulder. "So you don't want a blade, eh, matey? I got some nice blades here. Nice shiny blades with nice sharp edges on them. Enough to shave with, though... known only a few beasts who actually shave. Shaving is a rather taboo topic with creatures, don't you think? I personally think shaving is nice to keep down the grizz…"

"No blade, Comb," Cy asserted.

"Of course not. But 'tis my specialty. Can't blame a beast for trying to give forth their best work for the… ah! Here we go. I believe this is the one for ye, mate. Cap'n Zock, I present to you, Esmeralda."

The fox brandished a club, took a few swings, and knocked a kettle off a stove, spilling scalding water everywhere. Cy blocked it from splattering upon her and Wazzock by use of a large pot pan, before replacing it on what Wazzock swore looked like molten metal. Comb collected himself and carefully handed off the club to Wazzock, as if pawing over a small kit. Wazzock took the handle, and noted the brunt of the weapon had metal strips nailed into the wood, a slight ridged spike in the middle of each. He felt the balance, in one paw, then two, then attempted to balance it on his nose.

"Ah, good beast! Getting a proper feel for the weapon." Comb grinned.

"Are you sure I can't get a pike, Cy?" Wazzock asked, the edge of a whine in his voice.

"Pike's pike? Only if you want it shoved up your…" A pot exploded and they ducked.

Comb looked down at them, nonplussed, his ears now smoking. "Anything else I can do for you beasties? Pie?"

"Not tonight, Comb. Thank you for the slice you provided earlier, though. We must be…"

"What are those, Mister Comb?" Wazzock interjected, pointing to a row of bottles next to the door. They were green bottles, a piece of cloth sticking out of the top, giving off a notable turpentine tang that could even be smelt over the rest of burning kitchen items.  
The fox's eyes lit up. "Oh, those are a special project of mind."

After the explanation, and exiting the kitchen, Cynthia took her leave of Wazzock's company. "It would appear my duties are never done. Imperial business calls. Best of luck with your little plans, Wazzy." She nuzzled him. "And, best of luck with Gloria. I have no idea what you see in that blasted stoat."

"She's a grand friend, dear. She's having a rough times these days, so she needs a dash of cheering up."

"You could always stab yourself in the heart to cheer her up."

"Good idea, but that would stain my uniform. That wouldn't be sensible."

"I know, Wazzy. There's something else I need to tell you before you go…"

"Yes, Cy?"

Cynthia hesitated, opened her mouth, frowned, opened it again, then pulled at a whisker. Wazzock waited patiently.

"If you get hurt I'm going to break your leg."

"I know, Cy."

They parted ways. Wazzock considered the progression of expressions upon Cy's face. A series of subtle muscle twitches, saying anything besides what she'd actually said. He'd learned much from watching Switch's face, and then the faces of creatures around him. The ways the faces spoke without actually speaking, and how often those faces didn't match that which was actually said. He found creatures didn't smile much. He had the impulse at times to do it for them, to just take the sides of their maw and pull up, but he had decided that might be considered too forward.

He closed his eyes. He saw the troops - the faces - all looking at him, somber, waiting for him to give them orders. His tail twitched. So somber. Not necessary in front of him now, but he believed that the somber expressions were there. The Imperium had been downtrodden from battle. They needed to go forward - to think ahead and make each step count.

Wazzock had a plan to solve that. They would be waiting for him in the armory, ready to do what he wished. He couldn't quite catch the reality of that. It was the same as being the _Stormchaser_'s captain, being thrust into the unknown. He was a still a leader, not only of his crew, but of the last defenses of Amarone, and perhaps of the entire fate of the Imperium.

He growled the same way Cy had.

To save a place he felt no love for.

He wouldn't do this for the Imperium. He wouldn't do this for the ministers. He wouldn't do this for the Emperor. He would do this for the beasts under his command.

Wazzock knocked his club against the door.

"What d'ye want?"

"Ms. Gloria, Wazzy here."

Silence.

He knocked his club on the door again.

"Are you all right in there, Ms. Gloria?"

"I'm ignoring ye, s'go away."

"I need you, Rusty."

"Ignoring ye."

"That's not very mature."

The door whipped open (an impressive act for a door), and Gloria stood there, every square paw the fearsome creature. "MATURE?! I'll show ye mature, ye mal-"

Wazzock grinned up at her. "Knew that would lure you out." He began to walk down the hall.

He counted to three. He heard a growl. He counted to five. Gloria caught up to him. "What's the club, then?"

"Needed a weapon."

"For what? Preparing t'accidentally whack His Grace in the head again?"

"I chopped off half his whiskers with the cutlass - another reason for the weapon change. I don't believe that can be done with a club."

They walked down a few more corridors. Shiny items lining each new hall.

"What do you think about mutiny, Rusty?"

"An act punishable by death."

"Indeed."

A few more corridors.

"What if were done for the right reasons?"

"There're no 'right reasons' when it comes t'mutiny. Ye should know that, Wazzy. If ye hear a whisper of it, ye squelch it. Plain and simple."

"What were your son's reasons?"

Gloria stopped. Wazzock continued a few steps, then looked back.

"No need to answer. Though another question: Is the Emperor really that muscled?" he queried, pointing at a painting that showed Voss ripping apart a badger with his bare paws.

"What're ye on about? What business d'ye…"

"Beasts are fickle creatures. Led places they don't mean to go, doing what they sincerely think is right, though they know the dire consequences. I really don't know what's right or wrong. I know the line is blurred. Your kits were doing what they thought right. Doing what's right is not restrained by little words like 'mutiny.'"

"Get t'the point."

"I'm asking you to be a little mutinous for the good of the Imperium, Rusty. Get out there and prove yourself. You won't be in charge, mind you, but that's just a technicality. That, and I think if you don't get out there, you're going to rip my head off my shoulders. I rather like my head where it's at, you see. So, will you go raiding with us?"

She considered him for a moment, then nodded. "Yer in charge, Cap'n. What's the plan?"

"Simple rough-and-tumble rescue mission. In, out, perhaps stop for biscuits. I think there's a bakery en route." Wazzock handed over a scroll. "I looked at our plans before. Grand displays of paw-to-paw battle, to be sure, but what we need now is to bite the badger in the tail, pardon the expression, and boost morale for the troops. Start with this, and progress upward."

Gloria looked up from the scroll, brow raised. "Guerrilla tactics?"

"They're not called poke-the-hive-with-a-stick-and-run tactics? I knew I shouldn't have bought that pamphlet… Anyway, you'll come with our group? I'm sending a few beasts to scout out and create a distraction as necessary. I'm leading a small force to get the Guards in the South Tower."

"Wazzy, I'm not s'sure that's the best use of-"

"I won't have tea with you afterward."

"…Agreed."

- - -

The night air nipped at noses and crept into their boots as figures swathed in white scampered from one shadow to the next through Amarone. They kept silent except for the occasional chattering of teeth or whisper, like so:

"Why the white cloaks? We're bright as the day is long in these, ye moron."

"I think you look quite dashing in white. Goes with your winter coat. No need to growl. These are for camouflage, Rusty. So we can swoop in without detection. And, you must admit, it has worked quite smashingly so far."

"We haven't seen anybeastie about."

"Exactly my point."

"Are ye certain yer reading the map right?"

"Of course I am. Aren't I, Mister Jericho?"

"I can't says ye are, Cap'n. I find m'self wonderin' the same as the feisty jezebel o'er yonder. Rar."

"What?"

"Ye gots it upside down, Cap'n."

"So I do."

Rustling while the scroll turned over.

"I think we're still nearby. I haven't even been following this map anyway. Was just going off instincts... isn't that the palace right there?"

"That's the morgue."

"Right next to the non-fish fishsticks shack. Ah, now I know where we are. Just need to take another left and we'll be there. Left is right, right? Though only if right is left in the end."

"Ye don't ken which is which, d'ye?"

"I've gotten quite used to ship directions. Like starboard and... and... not starboard. Ah! There it is."

"Praise the Fates that be," Gloria murmured.

"Mmm..."

"What, Wazzy?"

"About there not being many beasts around. Strange, isn't it? I guess part of it is being complacent after taking over the city so quickly this last week, but I must say it is a dash suspicious, isn't it?"

"Oh, they're all occupied with a dinner party of some sort."

The dozen beasts on the mission turned to see a wearet looking down at the, picking his teeth with a gull's rib bone.

"Urie?"

The wearet grinned. "Captain Wazzock? Fancy seeing you again. I've been put on guard duty. It's quite fun. I'm getting some fish afterwards if I do a good job. What are you up to?"

Wazzock shrugged. "Just... taking a walk, picking up some beasts of ours who were captured. The usual."

"It appears your first mate is being throttled."

"Gloria, stop beating up on Jeri. He can't help his winking."

"I'm not punching him for the winking. I'm not punching him for rubbing his paw up m'tail."

"Carry on then. But meet Urie. He's a wearet, and he's working for the Southern Army."

"...I'd ask if ye were insane, but I kenned that seasons ago."

"So Urie, what are you guarding exactly?"

"Oh, there's some beasts tied up in that tower over there. There were some foxes guarding it but they wanted to go someplace, so let left me here. I slipped out of my harness and halter because I thought it would be better that I walked around guarding rather than being tied to a post."

Gloria nudged Wazzock. "Are ye sure yer not related t'this one, Wazzy? He's an absolute loony."

Wazzock ignored the comment. "Oh, mind if I have my creatures take a look at those beasts tied up in that tower? I'm certain they don't like being restrained any more than you do."

"That is a good point." Urie sniffed the air, and then shoved his snout into Wazzock's coat. "Do you have more fish?"

"Indeed, Urie, and even better, I brought tea." He opened his coat to reveal a cask on one side, a fish on the other. "While I give Urie a snack, my friends will handle guarding the tied up creatures in the tower."

Wazzock gave his troops a Meaningful Look. To their credit, they'd been around him long enough to shrug this odd event off and carry on with the plan. While they headed to the tower, Wazzock found a bucket, filled it with cool tea, and placed the fish inside. Urie lapped it up with gusto, loud slurping permeating the air. For his part, Wazzock kept an eye on the South Tower. He heard guffawing, which was quite loud given Urie's singular cacophony.

Down the icy street, three figures came, two foxes and a rat, in obvious high spirits – both in mood and alcohol content. "I'll be right back," Wazzock whispered to Urie. Then slowly edged into the street. The beasts were headed for the tower, and Wazzock could see silhouettes in the windows. Were there creatures inside they'd had to deal with? Had they wandered into a trap? Perhaps these creatures were part of it. Perhaps the drunkenness was just a ruse. Perhaps there was a secret signal sent out the moment they made it to the tower. Perhaps…

He strode forward. He gripped his club. The figures turned to him, dazed expressions. Wazzock swung the club, it laid out the fox on the left with a sickening crack. Blood splattered black against the white of the snow. Wazzock stopped. He'd never quite done anything like that before. Nothing quite that messy before. He didn't mean to hit that hard. He…

The rat tackled him. A sword appeared at his throat, and the club sprang from his grasp. The other fox was yelling, kicking him in the ribs. Wazzock couldn't breathe. The rat was swearing. Wazzock felt as if he was watching the beast from a long way off. He murmured the words, "I'm sorry." But they were lost to the rage tumbling down upon him. They kept yelling. His arms were pinned. The club was out of reach. His vision blurred.

Then, warmth splattered over his face. The rat pulled away from Wazzock. Bones cracked, more warm liquid hit him, getting in his eye. He rubbed his face and rose. The tower opened, beasts scattering out with their weapons drawn. The other fox looked about, dazed. An arrow entered his skull. He fell next to Wazzock. Gloria presented a paw. Wazzock was pulled up. He tried to calm himself.

His name was being said. He heard past that. The yells of alarm. He came back. Gloria hissed his name. "Wazzy? Wazzock! Are ye all right? Oi! Wazzock Pike!"

"Yes. I killed a fox."

"I see that. Yer club did a fine job on his skull. What happened?"

"A trap."

"What ye on about?"

"Always consider every possibility."

She snorted impatiently. "We don't have time for this, Wazzy. We need t'get out of here. Yer wearet friend is eating that rat. He's lost it. I think he saved ye. Those foreign fops must've heard _something_. We need t'move. Now."

"It's too quiet. Too casual. Everybeast is too casual."

"It's war. Beasts get used to it."

"The Emperor and the Ministers aren't even _scared_?"

"We're getting out of here. Mr. Jericho! Get the Guards and the rest back t'the palace. I'll deal with Cap'n Pike."

"Don't kill him!" the yell of an unseen snout called from the group.

"I'll not be making promises. This is an order from Cap'n Pike, anyway. Aye, Wazzy?"

"Listen to Ms. Gloria."

The others moved away as Gloria hauled Wazzock forward, his boots dragging. "Move yer paws, ye lazy duck. Ye need t'snap out of it."

"But I have snapped out of it. I'm thinking clearly for the first time in weeks. This whole war, me being promoted... It's just, everything hasn't quite made sense."

"War doesn't _have_ t'make sense, Wazzy," the stoat growled, pulling the rat along. "It _shouldn't_ make sense – beasties killing each other for a scrap of land? It's nonsense. But it's what we do – what _you_ do every time ye go raiding the coast in yer ship. It's what makes the Imperium run. Complete and utter nonsense. Now move!"

"That's not it." He shook his head. "I just…did you know we're surrounded by quite a few beasts with crossbows?"

A roar interrupted. Not many beasts could roar. And not many beasts could stand in place as a (literally) bloody wearet charged at them. Crossbow-wielding beasts quickly scarpered for cover. Wazzock noted that they all happened to be ferrets and weasels. There also was a rat, but he fainted.

"Do you have more tea?" Urie asked.

Wazzock rubbed his chin. "At the palace, I believe."

"I wonder... could ye give us a ride there?" Gloria inquired.

"Are you a weasel?"

"I'm a stoat, ye balmy half-breed."

"I shall give you a ride." 


	65. Kings and Queens

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 64. Kings and Queens  
**

_by Seth  
_

Seth eyed the murky waters of the moat that surrounded the Emperor's castle. He really couldn't help himself. Flat on his stomach as he was, with sticks and stones and Fates knew what else digging into his still bandaged and sore ribs, it was the only thing he could look at as it gurgled past his nose.

_Dear Sadie,_

We've taken the city of Amarone. Mostly. In the first attack I sustained some rather vicious wounds. Four of my ribs were broken and one of the Imperium beasts thought that I needed an arrow for an earring. I've recovered to the extent that I'm capable of field work again.

"Let me get this straight," he said in a whisper, "Maxwell's and Drua's regiments are charging the castle gatehouse and frontal walls to create a diversion and draw all attention to a main frontal attack. Meanwhile, we crawl on our elbows through knee-high mud and weeds and brush-"

"Stop whining, Lieutenant, unless you care to join them as a diversion."

Seth glared at Steep, who was lying next to him. " Anyway, as I was saying: We crawl through all that to get to the edge of the moat so that we can dive into unknown waters and swim across to some Fates forsaken drain grate that Pip is supposed to find and guide us to."

"Is there a problem, Lieutenant?"

"Problem? Certainly not! After all, not only do we get to swim across, and try to stay as invisible as possible. We also get to load our esteemed General, and my son, onto a door that we pulled off a tavern that was falling in, and float them across."

"That's the plan."

"_Why_, exactly?"

"We're soldiers, Lieutenant. We don't question orders, we just follow them."

"Forgive me Captain, I wasn't aware that it was standard protocol to take kits and cripples with you during a highly dangerous and very delicate breaking-and-entering situation."

"You are aware that the General has very good hearing?" Pip asked landing beside Seth. The marten jumped, then swore.

"Don't do that!" he hissed. "Or I'll make you swim with us, on account of both your wings being broken!"

"Sorry, Devonshire. I forgot you scare easier than Ruffy."

"Cease that! I see Lock's signal. Mr. Pleasantrie, is the grate far?"

The bird nodded. "It's a little bit of a swim, but nothing any of you can't handle."

Steep handed Seth a hollow reed. He stared at it curiously.

"What's this for?"

"Put it in your mouth and swim on your back, under the water. You breathe through it."

_General Lock has ordered an elite squad to the Emperor's castle now, and our mission is to infiltrate their defenses and take them from the inside while the rest of our valiant army provides a diversion._

There was rustling behind Seth, and a rat and a ferret appeared, hauling a door behind them. With a wary glance up at the sheer castle walls, broken only occasionally by windows, or balconies, or lots of other things that a casual observer could see them from, they cautiously eased it into the water.

A moment later, the invalid fox was dragged up on a long board that someone had attached little wheels to. Coming immediately after him was Klist and a few of his infamous sharpshooters.

The wildcat pulling Lock's stretcher unbuckled the harness strapped around his chest and shoulders and then helped the General to the water's edge where the door was being held for him.

"What a modern mode of transportation," Lock said dryly, looking at the makeshift raft. "It will have to do, I suppose."

"Apologies, General." Steep said smartly. "We were unable to commandeer a boat this far inland. I'm afraid you'll have to make do, sir."

Seth rolled his eyes, and then yelped as something landed on his back. Steep twisted and clamped his mouth shut with her paws before his outcry could become a full bellow of pain. The marten writhed, as his ribs set up a dull, hollow ache, and he moved his head around to see Keinruf grinning at him from his perch.

"Mmmwuuunmmnuuhhh."

Steep gingerly took her paw away from his mouth. "Do keep your wits about you, Lieutenant."

"What happened to the drowning him idea?" Seth moaned. "I rather liked it."

"Captain Steep, inform Lieutenant Devonshire that I still think he's an idiot and he needs to stop talking. Now let's be on our way. Mr. Pleasantrie, forward."

With far more splashing and muffled yelps at the icy coldness of the water than were absolutely necessary, Lock and Keinruf were loaded onto the raft while the rest of the regiment slipped into the dark water.

Flying low, his wingtips almost brushing the water, Pip flew ahead, leading them towards the much too distant wall of the castle.

Seth eyed Keinruf as the kit dipped an exploratory paw into the cold liquid, and then quickly retreated onto the driest part of the door with a look of distaste on his face. The older marten snorted.

"Lucky little bastard."

Steep glared at him and motioned towards the makeshift raft.

"You need not remind us of your marital status, Lieutenant. Help me push."

"I said something about not talking, Devonshire, and the order has not been lifted. Now hurry up, time is wasting."

"We could drown both of them." Seth suggested, as he helped Steep push the door along. "We could say it was an accident." His ears flattened as Lock glared at him. "Nothing personal. General."

The fox turned his attention to the kit, as if noticing it for the first time. Tentatively, he poked it in the stomach to see whether it was stuffed or not. When Keinruf giggled in response, Lock closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "I have something of a pertinent question, which I would like someone to answer. _Why is there a marten kit here, at all, never mind on a mission which requires absolute secrecy and an absolute lack of children?_"

"It's Seth's, we couldn't leave him behind," Steep supplied, "and we need him to get through the grate. The bars are too small to get an adult through."

Seth was raised a few inches out of the water as the fox lifted him by his collar. "Devonshire, do you ever plan on making me not want to kill you?"

"I'll make it my first priority, General," Seth growled and batted the fox's paw away. "Now, if you don't mind."

Keinruf blinked at Lock, and then dribbled water onto Seth's ear.

"Bloody-"

Steep reached over and dunked his head under. Seth choked as water filled his mouth, before he came up gasping and sputtering.

"Keep your voice down, Lieutenant!" Steep hissed at him. "Anything over a whisper until we're inside, and we're all dead!"

"I'd like to drown you, as well," Seth snarled back.

He could feel his hide trying to crawl away from his body back to dry land as they continued through the icy coldness. His teeth began chattering, and he could feel himself shaking.

"Hold it together, Lieutenant," Steep said. "We're almost to the grate. There's Mr. Pleasantrie and the others. I'm going to go on ahead and make sure they're ours. Keep paddling."

Keinruf perked up and started to scramble upright. Lock reached out and snagging the kit's arm, pulling him back down so fast that his rump made an audible thump as it connected with the wood.

"Oh, bollocks." Seth whimpered. "Really?"

The little marten's face wrinkled up while his eyes started to fill. Seth winced as his son's mouth opened and his chest began expanding as he gasped in enough air to scream.

"General," Seth said quickly, "you've got to do something fast or he's going to bring the entire Imperial army down on us."

Lock opened his mouth, only to realize he didn't have much of an idea of what to say to a child to get it to stop crying. "Stop that," Lock demanded. It didn't seem to work, even when Lock added his glare for effect. "That's an order." Still nothing. "Either you stop that, or I'm pushing you overboard."

"You've got five more seconds." Seth said as Keinruf pulled in more air. "Then he's going to yell. And he's got that down to a fine art."

With a growl Lock pulled himself forward on the raft and stuffed his good paw over the kit's mouth. Keinruf promptly bit him.

Seth cringed as the fox's eyes crossed and several words that were new even to Seth spilled out into the air.

"------, -------- ------!" said Lock.

"I could've told you not to do that." Seth muttered.

"------!"

"Well, he didn't scream."

"------!"

The raft bumped into the castle wall.

"General, Captain, Ruffy, Lieutenant." Pip said.

Seth peered around the fox who, in spite of pain and probably rage, still had his paw clamped firmly over Keinruf's mouth, and saw Pip perched on a ledge above a large grate. The rest of the soldiers accompanying them were clustered around it, huddling together for warmth as much as they could.

Seth swam over to the grate, pulling the raft after him with the help of Steep and then grabbed hold of the bars and tethered them there.

He looked up at his son's still brimming eyes.

"Em… Captain? How do you make a kit stop crying?"

Steep eyed him. "Drowning is your preferred method, isn't it?"

"Pip? Any ideas?"

"Rock him gently?"

A muffled sob escaped and tears began pouring down like a waterfall.

"Before we all recite our favorite nursery rhymes," said Lock through gritted teeth, "I'd like to remind everyone that our dear sweet child has his teeth firmly imbedded in my arm, and is five seconds away from earning a flogging sentence."

Major Darcy shook his head. "Sir, you can't do that."

Pip nodded, shooting an irate glare at the General. "That's right. Flogging a child is too cruel, even for you."

The rat blinked. "No, I meant, he can't do that because he still has orders from central command that he's not allowed to flog any soldier who's not legally adult anymore."

The plover gave a grimace of distaste. "Anymore?"

"It only happened once," Lock growled. "Now get this thing off of my paw!"

The wildcat who'd been pulling Lock's rolling stretcher looked over from where he was clinging to the wall, attempting to get most of himself away from the water as possible.

"Hey, what's the kit's name?" he asked, his teeth chattering.

"Keinruf," Seth supplied. "Why?"

The cat turned his gaze to the little marten whose eyes were turning red and whose body was shaking from forcefully repressed sobbing.

"Keinruf, you like candied chestnuts?"

There was the faint sound of a hiccup and then the kit nodded as vehemently as possible with a fox's paw in his mouth.

"Well, it just so happens that this castle has a room full of them." The cat crooned through chattering teeth. "Only you have to do us a little favor so we can help you get them."

Keinruf's eyes narrowed, despite the tears still pouring out of them, and his ears twitched forward.

The cat motioned towards the grate. "All you have to do is go through those bars right there, and there's a catch on the inside that we can't reach. If you undo it, and let us in, we can help you find the room full of sweeties. But you have to stop crying first. Otherwise the bad beasts will take all the candies away before we can get to them."

Between Seth, Steep, Lock, and Pip there was dead silence as they looked back and forth between Keinruf and the cat. Then the kit pushed Lock's paw away from his mouth and nodded, scampering over to the grate and slipping quickly through.

Seth stared. "You mean that works?" he finally managed.

The cat shrugged. "I've got three of my own."

Lock inspected his well-chewed paw. "I'd advise you to take notes, Lieutenant," he said, dabbing at the blood dripping out of it. "It might be useful to know what makes your spawn work."

There was a loud clicking sound from the tunnel behind the grate and it began to swing open.

"Just one thing." The cat said as the soldiers began to scramble through and climb up onto the much dryer stone floor.

Seth eyed him. "What?"

"You will have to find him some candied chestnuts."

_Someday Sadie, if this war ever ends, I'm going to buy you the biggest diamond money can buy. Provided you always keep a tin of candied chestnuts in the house. I've come to find they're an invaluable necessity._

I miss you darling,

Seth Devonshire 

The tunnel behind the grate ended at a door. A big, metal-studded, heavily-locked, 'I'm bigger and meaner than you so don't even try it' door.

Seth shivered as they all stood dripping together in front of it. Keinruf had his arms crossed, and a pout on his face as he stood next to the door.

"What now?" Seth asked.

Lock smirked and limped forward painfully, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket.

"Let's just say my contact has been very… helpful," he said as he unlocked the door.

As it swung open, Seth snagged Keinruf before the kit could dart through.

"Not so fast," he said. "You're staying with me."

Keinruf squirmed and snapped at his paws. Seth eyed him. "I'll bite you back," he threatened. The kit turned huge eyes on him. Seth glared back. "Don't you dare try me."

As the soldiers filed through as quietly as they could, he pulled Pip to the side.

"Do me a favor and let the brat ride you, eh?"

Pip smirked. "As long as you give him a ride after he's found the chestnut-room."

The kit grinned as Seth lifted him onto the bird's back. "Don't be silly, that's what leashes are for," Seth muttered.

Steep raised an eye-whisker. "See to it you find one soon, Lieutenant. General Lock, where are we going?"

The fox pulled an oilskin out of his shirt and unrolled it. After a few minutes inspection he nodded down another stone corridor. "We go this way until we get to another door, rather like this one. That'll open up into one of the main servant passages. From there it'll get tricky. My contact is waiting for us in the main banquet hall, and we'll have to go through the ballroom and down several main halls. If we're caught, your orders are to split up to disperse the enemy. Now then, let's be off."

As they followed the General's limping stride and painfully loud peg leg down the hallway Seth nudged Pip.

"Why'd you turn on them?"

The bird gave him a startled glance. "I beg your pardon?"

"The SLA. I would have figured you'd stick with your own kind."

"I didn't turn on --" Pip looked abashed. "It's not about kind, Devonshire. They were going to kidnap the Captain. She's a friend..."

They reached the next door and everyone came to a muffled stop as Lock unlocked it. Seth reached over and scratched Keinruf between the ears. As the door swung open and they filed into the servants hallway, he spoke again.

"So, you justify the death of your kind by a friendship that you value and she doesn't even notice? Not that I mind, you understand. I thought it was rather fun, especially when it was brought out they were SLA."

Pip scowled at the marten. "Well, first off, they're not my kind. I realize you're dim-witted, Devonshire, but I'm a bird. They were not. Second, even if she doesn't value me as a friend, friendship isn't about 'what can this person do for me.' That's a business transaction."

Seth waved a paw in the air. "Bird, woodlander, practically the same. Food supplies mucking about with some shopped-up excuse for not being eaten. And there's nothing wrong with, 'business transactions,' as you call them. I've met some lovely creatures through them."

Keinruf grinned and kicked his heels into Pip's sides.

"Erk!" Pip turned his head about and glared at the kit. "Sure, they've been lovely, but 'betray a group of their own -- as you put it, kind -- just to help a friend who may not even give an Amaronian sewage about them'-lovely? And just because you can eat something doesn't mean you should. I could tear out your throat and toss it down like a minnow. Should I?"

Seth was silent for awhile, his mind turning this strange idea around for inspection on all sides. He absent-mindedly buffed his claws against his shirt. "Different class structures have different privileges.," he said at last. He paused again. "I think." His face wrinkled and he chewed on his lip. "The natural way of things would be that you would get eaten, and I might be the one to eat you. There isn't anything right or wrong about it, it's just how things are…" He stopped. That sounded stupid, even to him.

Pip snorted. "Natural order? Oh, like it's so natural for you to flirt with the Captain? Or that maid at Ruston's? Or anybeast on two paws? Since, you know, it's _natural_ for weasels and martens to…" He stopped abruptly.

Seth felt his face heating up. "That's below the belt," he muttered.

Pip perked a little. "Really? Then let me grind my heel a little. You're all about classes, eh? What about your son? The Wrights may be a distinguished family, but they're soldiers. And the letters you send back aren't addressed to a family manor."

He was blushing. He was actually blushing. The marten gritted his teeth. "That's none of your affair. You don't know what happened with Alyssa, and you have no right to inquire into my personal business."

"Fair enough." Pip gave a little shrug that bounced Keinruf - much to his delight. "Besides, something good came out of it, eh?" He glanced back at the kit.

Seth eyed Keinruf. "I still like the drowning idea," he muttered.

"You two in the rear, keep it down!" The command came from Steep, coming down the line towards them.

Seth muttered something else and subsided. They were stopped at a door that Lock had his ear pressed to very tightly. The mood running through the group was tense, from here on out they'd be in the open with a very good chance of being spotted if the diversion at the gatehouse didn't keep everyone occupied.

Slowly, with care, the fox eased back the catch on the door and pushed it open. It never creaked once.

And there, standing in the middle of the large, red carpeted hall, was a huge wildcat. He blinked at them.

"Name, rank, and your business here!" Lock barked before the cat had a chance to collect his thoughts.

"Er, Atskiya, Alekzandor… house guar…" he trailed off as his deep sunk eyes focused on their green and gold uniforms. "You're no-"

A knife flew through the air and buried itself in the cat's stomach. He stumbled back, a startled expression on his face. Then he snarled.

"Captain!" he screamed. "Invaders! Murderers! Captain! To ar-"

He was cut off as another knife sliced through the air and found his throat. He fell back into the wall and slumped down, gurgling noises issuing from his mouth as blood poured down and soaked the front of his uniform.

There was a commotion down the hallway and the sound of running footpaws.

"Blast!" said Lock. "Everyone split up! Draw them away, I must get to the banquet room! Steep, Darcy, and you three, come with me, the rest of you, go!"

They scattered, a few running towards the approaching pawsteps to try and slow them down, a few found a side corridor and vanished, Lock, with the help of Darcy and the wildcat who'd bribed Keinruf with the promise of candies, moved down the main hallway guarded by Steep and the remaining soldiers.

Seth looked at Pip and then snatched Keinruf and moved him to his own back.

"Let's go!" he shouted. They sprinted until they found a side hall that hadn't been taken yet and turned down it.

"There has to be _some_ sort of room here!" Seth gasped. "We can't keep the kit with us!"

"This way!" Pip shouted and ran down another corridor. It was lined with doors.

"Which one?" Seth asked. "Someone's coming!"

"Ehh... that one!" The bird threw himself against a door and they burst through it...

There was a long silence, and then one of the brightly, if scantily clad, figures in the room giggled.

"Oh," said Seth.

"No," said Pip.

"Please?" begged Seth.

"Just _how many_ kits do you intend to take home, Devonshire?"

Seth swallowed and made a whimpering noise. "Ten?" He ventured with a quick count of… colors.

Then, something outside in the hallway smashed, and the two jerked into action again.

"Which way out?" Pip looked around frantically.

"Call me Seth, darling. Oh, you like kits?"

"Devonshire!"

"Coming! Coming! Dearest that red is _not_ your color. Try blue. Yes, tha-"

"_Devonshire!_"

Seth extricated himself out of a web of silken scarves and dragged himself towards the bird who was frantically beating at the window sash.

"Help me open it! I don't have paws like you!"

"Can't I just…"

"No!"

"Two minutes?"

Now there was shouting outside the room. Seth said a very bad word indeed and hauled the window open. A wide sill ran just below it, continuing along the wall to other windows.

"Move, move!" Pip pecked the back of the marten's head to get him climbing out onto the sill, and without delay, the bird followed.

"Don't forget to close it!"

With another curse Seth pulled the window back down and then turning, sidled along the stonework, his back pressed firmly against the wall. Suddenly, he froze.

"Where's Keinruf?" he asked.

Pip stopped mid flap, and just barely remembered to finish it in order to stay aloft.

"You didn't!"

"He must've…"

"Devonshire!"

Seth nodded at a window set into the wall ahead of them. "We'll get back in there!"

Easing himself the remainder of the way along the wall, he pushed at the window. It didn't budge.

"It's locked!"

"Break it!"

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, Seth braced himself and kicked backward as hard as he could. The glass smashed into a few thousand glittering shards.

Carefully he moved in front of the window, trying to avoid the sharp glass, and lowered himself down into the room beyond. Pip followed him in and for a moment they stood with their eyes adjusting to the darker room from the bright sunlight outside.

"Ahem."

Seth froze, and slowly turned around. Gloria Ruston stood in the middle of the room bent over a table upon which was stretched out a huge map. Around her stood Fredrick Wright, Beandish Arnold, and an entire troop of armed soldiers.

Wright glanced at the broken window, then at the door.

"I'm all fer dramatic entrances an' all," he said. "But normally beasts use doors."

"Em…" said Seth. "Pip, get out of here!"

"Off s'soon?" the stoat inquired. Then, she barked, "Restrain them!"

The soldiers in the room moved quickly, one of them running to the broken window, blocking any escape for Pip that way.

"We just keep running int' each other, Lord Devonshire. Some beasties might call it the work of the Fates." She turned to the ferret, Lord Arnold. "What're we t'do with this lot, m'Lord?"

Seth winked at her. "I have a few suggestions."

A slow smile spread across the stoat's face. She walked across the room towards him, her tail swaying side to side.

"Is that so, m'Lord?" she asked sweetly, hardly a breath away from Seth's face.

Seth grinned. "Rather."

She reached up and rubbed her claw against his cheek gently for a moment, then, digging it in, dragged it viciously across his face.

Seth howled and reeled back.

"You wench! You scheming little wench!"

Gloria smiled at him, showing all her gleaming fangs. "Don't cry, Lord Devonshire. It's only a wee scratch."

Seth took a paw gingerly away from the bleeding slash across his features and waved the bloodied appendage in her face. "A scratch? A bloody scratch? You!"

Abruptly he sprang forward, ducking under another claw slash. He grabbed her wrists, lost his footing, and took both of them to the floor. As the soldiers not holding Pip at bay rushed to help her, Seth pinned her arms down with his knees and, reaching down with his free paw, drew a dagger out of the stoat's belt. He held it to her throat.

"All of you get back or you're precious captain gets it!" he snarled.

For a moment the soldiers looked back and forth between Seth and Gloria, then began advancing again.

"I'd believe him if I were you," Pip piped up. "He's rather touchy about his face."

The soldiers paused again. Then, Fredrick, who was smirking at the entire scene, spoke up.

"An' just what would ye like us t'do now? _Lord_ Devonshire?"

Seth watched as some of his blood dripped down onto Gloria's face. He licked his lips, breathing hard. Slowly, keeping the knife at her throat at all times, he eased off of her and pulled her upright, holding her in front of him.

He eyed Wright. "You, lead the way to the banquet room. You others, let the bird go. He's got papers saying he can't be eaten. All the soldiers stay here. Lock yourselves in. One wrong move and Lady Ruston here..." He twisted the arm with her hook behind her until she caught her breath sharply. "...Won't live to tell the tale."

"I thought ye were more… chivalrous, Lord Devonshire," Gloria bit out sarcastically. "Yer just s'brave for attacking a one-pawed, _injured_ female."

Seth pushed the blade a little harder into her neck and forced her toward Wright as he led the way from the room.

"Don't tempt me, darling," he hissed. "I might just show you how brave I can be."

The rest of the way they were silent as Wright led them through halls and corridors, until they reached two huge ornate double doors. With a facetious bow towards Seth, the marten threw back the doors and stood aside.

General Lock stood up at the head of the table – Darcy had acquired a dark black cape from somewhere and draped it around his shoulders in an effort to keep him warm.

The fox eyed the newcomers as Gloria twisted out of Seth's grip, snatched the knife out of his paw, and threw it at the General's head. The fox was forcibly pulled out of the way by Darcy and the blade stuck fast in the tall back of the chair.

Without a glance at the thing that had almost ended his life then and there, the fox motioned at the row of chairs surrounding the table.

"We would be honored if you would join us."

Beside him, Baltsar stood up, his personal bodyguard hefting a crossbow in Gloria's direction. All around the room, southern soldiers in green and gold brandished weapons and made it very clear that, for the moment, the Imperials were rather more than out-numbered.

"Ye traitor," Gloria began, smoldering gaze fixed on the Minister of War.

There was a sudden, nervous throat clearing behind Seth, and the marten turned to see the rat captain standing in the doorway, holding on to something small and covered in colorful scarves.

"Er, not to interrupt anything important," said Wazzock moving the scarf thing forward, "but I found this little chap wandering around and I wondered if anyone knew who he belonged to?"

Seth squinted at it.

Wright started.

"Keinruf?" they said.


	66. Love Letters

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 65. Love Letters  
**

_by Steep  
_

_co-writer credit to Pleasantrie, for Pylaris's letters_

Deer Y,

I'm sorry to leeve on such short notice. All of the S~ are pulling out of BH~. Our ships are packed with refewgees but we cannot leeve any beests behind lest more ryits brake out. Enclosed is my home adress I beg of you to burn it after you commit it to memory. It is, a madness house here ryte now. When I get home I will send something to remember me by. Pleese send something in return so sha'nt I forget you. Not that I ever wood!

All my love,  
~R

~*~*~*~*~

Dearest R,

I dare not tell you of all that has happened here. It has been a strange few weeks. Mother is all in a frenzy, but more joyful than I've seen her in a long while. Father muttered something about her "having a purpose like never before". I'm not sure what that means.

How are you holding up? I've heard that some of the fighting was bad and I worry for your condition. How is your mother?

All I want is for this to blow over so that I can see you again. That dinner! And afterwards, on the roof of the opera house. Why, I never even knew we could climb up there! You've shown me such things... I don't want it to end. I want you back here. If I can find a way to visit the S~...

I hope to see you soon.

Your love, with kisses,  
~Y

~*~*~*~*~

Deer Y,

I receved, in the mayl the perfume thank you. It is a singulur sent here in our capitol and I have been asked questions alredy. I will brush this letter against my cheek so you can smell how it is on me.

Have you thot of a way your mother will not find the letters? I will send my gift once I am sertin she will not find it. It is, my only one and I do not wish to put you in trouble.

██#██████#██#████.

Thank you for inquiring as to my helth I am doing well fine toler well. The heelers have not found any problems but I am living in hope. How are you faring?

All my love,  
~R

~*~*~*~*~

Dearest R,

The fairest rose in Ruston garden shall  
Never compare with your beauty. But now  
I can only hold each letter. Still all  
My love to you, my Exotic Ale, I avow.

I received your return letter and I could barely smell the perfume. I was too enthralled with the tiniest scent of you—so much so, I imagined you were back in my arms.

Do not worry, I have found a way to get the letters to me—a trustworthy beast, at least as close to one as we could hope to find. She seemed... very attentive to my requests. I think she must have some issue against my mother to have agreed so enthusiastically; plenty of beasts do.

I still worry after your health. Apparently some of the beasts that dined with us have fallen ill. I'll keep an ear out for what the healers think is wrong with them—maybe visit a few myself, if I can. Mother is being overbearing again (I should stop calling her "my" mother, if she's to be yours as well, soon.)

Your love, with kisses, (send one back for me!)  
~Y

~*~*~*~*~

Deer Y,

I am pleesed you have found a go-between for my letters. Are you sertin, only you will be receving letters from this beest and no one else? Hawhaw I am just a little paranoyd I gess. But it wood be eeseer for me to put my letters in with the other reports if I can be sure you are our mayn contact.

How do you like my portrit? It was done, from when I was a kit and that is my uncle in the back with the funny sneer hawhaw he was holding in a sneez all during the paynting! I had to cleen my ears off after it was done.

Pleese keep me posted on the helth of the others and if the heelers have found anything. I am finding myself that half a bottle of grog before bed keeps me asleep through the worst of it although I have develiped an embarasing habit unfortunately. I have found also the I grog we have in storage is more efective then the S~ grog. Wood it be imposing to ask if you cood send me some more later lest we run out?

All my love (and a kiss as per your rekwest. I hope it dos'nt smuj.) 3ᵓ  
~R

~*~*~*~*~

Dearest R,

Do not worry. I told you, my courier is quite trustworthy.

The picture is wonderful. I have it hidden in my room, where mother wouldn't find it—she'd call it evidence, or some rot. I'm sad that you're so young, but not surprised at how cute you are! And who knew your uncle was such a softie, with the expression like that.

That lipstick was hard to get off. Yes, I did end up kissing it, imagining I was kissing you, again.

I've sent along some clippings, dear... I hope they aren't too distressing. Some of the beasts in the hospital ended up dead. I don't w I can't believe that you'll be the same. They took their lives, the pitiful things, and I know that you would never.

Not with me here waiting. And I always will be, my love. So promise me you'll fight through all of it to see me again. I know I would do anything to see you again.

Your love, with kisses and hugs and all of my heart,  
~Y

~*~*~*~*~

Deer Y,

I have red the Sm~ clippings you sent it is very sorrowing. I wish I cood beleeve that not all of them are ded now but its ███#us█████  
█ m███##███#███

██k█████#e#

Forgive the shortness of my letter but today is not a good day for me. I wood write tomorrow but the poste goes out tonyte so I will wayt your reply.

I promis you I will not do as the same and take my own life. I will wayt to see you again before I do anything as drastic. Pleese keep me posted on the investigations.

I love you, 3ᵓ  
~R

~*~*~*~*~

Dearest R,

That letter should have frightened me. You must have been in such a state...

But it didn't. You wrote back. Even though you were in pain, you wrote back. Even though the day was long and hard, you wrote me back.

I sent something along to help with the pain. It's a drink singular to the I~ and our own stores are... rather potent. Remember me mentioning the drink called 'Odde Tinge'? This is it.

The last of the other beasts are missing. However, there is some good news. Apparently, some of them were almost cured before they were gone. A certain herb mixture along with alcohol kept the pain at bay—I'll try to find the herbs, if I can.

I'm almost ready for an assignment to the South. I can feel it.

With love, I hope to see you again,  
~Y

~*~*~*~*~

Deer Y,

This may be my last letter for a while. I have been reinstated in the army as Leftenant. I am not sure yet of the detayls but I will be on a ship within the week and heded back to BH~. Where shall we meet? How about our last date at the B~? I will Misertross you when I arive in town.

Thank you for the Odde Tinge. I am now doing much better. I have not told you yet but I have had much dificulty coping. I have a scar on my nose and I am afrayd it will not go away for I keep scratching I cannot help myself. Also the fur on my back, has been shaved but it shood grow back in time. The leeches did not help after all.

How are you, my love? How are your parents? My father is well. The new mission has him eksited agayn and it is nice to see him out of the house more. I myself need to get back into shape. I have taken up fiddle lessons to okupy my time and I am getting very well on. I wood like to play for you someday. Hopefuly soon!

I hope you had a happy nameday. 17 is a nice age. When will you move out of your parents manor? I know, you are doing work for us there but if they can find somebeest else it wood fill me with such joy to know you are coming here. I miss you teribly.

All my love, 3ᵓ  
~R

~*~*~*~*~

Dearest R,

That is good news indeed! I'm so glad to hear from you once again, and you seem to be in a much better way! I would love to see you at the opera house again, if I could—the roof was so wonderful (not half as much as you were). But you're right, the B~ is a much safer place to meet. So many beasts for us to disappear in. If you're ever in town, go there. I've a standing reward to the barkeeps to inform me if a weasel that matches your description should ever arrive.

I miss you as well. I must be brief, for this may be the last I can write to you before you arrive. Once again, all of the I~ is aflutter over the possible actions of the SE~. They know something is up, so please be careful.

With all my love, and hope,  
~Y

PS (PS... that's funny, isn't it!), here's a new portrait of me. I've changed a bit since you last saw me.

~*~*~*~*~

Deer Y,

Everything, has gone to gull I am sorry. I have been placed on Sabatical. I cannot risk ryte now sending more letters and I must stop for a time. I can still receve from you so pleese keep sending. Your letters are all I have to look forward to. But it is best not to send packages any more.

I keep your nameday portrit under my pillow. I like to think it helps me sleep. You are very handsome.

I live only for you my love. Stay in good helth,  
~R

~*~*~*~*~

Dearest R,

I heard what happened, it's not your fault, my dear. Please keep hope and strength up. We'll still find a way to see each other again.

I must be brief, again. Mother keeps sending me out on assignment—she's been ever so angry since the engagement against the SE~.

~Y

~*~*~*~*~

Dearest R,

The worst has happened. It makes me cringe to even think about it. Father mentioned courtship to me. Ugh! I shudder to think of the toothless, cross-eyed wench they'd try to set me up with. Some half-cocked noble marriage, no doubt. I extricated myself as soon as possible.

Do not worry, Priscilla (to gull with safety and all that, I wanted to write your name again). I'll never let them marry me off. My heart is yours and yours alone. And there is none in the Imperium with your beauty or charms.

Never shall I let it hold another  
And never shall I love like that again.  
Never will my love grace any other.  
I want _you_ as my mate, my dearest friend.

Speaking of mate, would you like to try a game of chess once you can resume your side of our correspondence?

All of my love,  
~Y


	67. Ballroom Blitz

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 66. Ballroom Blitz  
**

_And the man in the back is ready to crack  
As he raises his hands to the sky  
And the girl in the corner is everyone's mourner  
She can kill you with a wink of her eye_

If this has been a melodrama, this would be that part where the villain at the head of the table started laughing at his defeated enemy. Digging the knife out of the chair's headrest, the fox settled for a smirk at Gloria. "Missed. _Again._"

The stoat was forced by Southern guards into a chair near the opposite end of the table. "Yer good at making beasties come up _short_, General." She scowled. Gloria looked liable to explode as her maddened eyes flitted back and forth between Baltsar and Lock. "How in Voss' name did ye get _him_ in here?" she demanded from the Minister of War.

The Southern general chose to answer. "Like most civilized beings, I used the door. The side door, that is. I didn't want to disturb you coming out the _back_ door."

No sooner had Wazzock sat down next to the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard then he was treated to a smack on the head. "Ye were supposed t'be watching the doors, ye long-tailed toad! Some Head of Defense _you_ are!"

The rat removed his hat to inspect the dent in the cloth which Gloria's fist had made. "If hats were made of pelts, do you suppose they would still bruise? Anyway, Rusty, I do believe that I was exactly the Head of Defense Lord Baltsar wanted, knowing full well my unfamiliarity with land-based tactics. That, and I don't believe I was responsible for palace security. Isn't that the Master of the Keys? That may be argued as you wish."

"It's troubling that Captain Pike continues to understand more than you, Gloria," said Baltsar. "While I'm certain I could have relied on your perpetual failure to allow the Southerners to continue, I thought it best to play it safe and have a half-insane rat take over. The results were guaranteed."

"I hate to interrupt, General," a concerned-looking Pip piped up, "But where's Captain Steep? I thought she was with you."

"She was unavoidably detained," said Lock. "There were some overzealous guards that needed taking care of. She will be joining us shortly."

"_Prissy's_ here, and not beastie heard ye mucking about?" Gloria groaned, clasping her head in her paw. "How the 'Gates did this happen...?"

"This happened," said Lock, with no small measure of satisfaction in his voice, "because not only are both you and Captain Wazzock completely inept, but I happen to be just that much better than you."

"That's not... I... _Grah_!" The hook smashed through the plate in front of Gloria, her face a mixture of pure hatred and a childish incomprehension. She fixed her glare on Baltsar. "But we _could_ have beaten them, sir! It's my... _our_ job t'beat them! _How_ could ye betray us? Betray _His Grace_?"

"Not all is as it appears, Gloria. And I am doing this for something far greater," said the weasel, in a surprisingly calm and collected voice. "Greater than the Vulpine Imperium. Greater than your disturbingly simple-minded loyalty. Deceiving you was unfortunate, but quite necessary."

"There's not a single bleeding thing necessary about it, ye two-faced maggot!" Gloria reached for something to throw, but a chorus of crossbows being cocked convinced her otherwise.

"Please, Captain Ruston," said Lock, sounding slightly bored. "I have to sit through enough immature outbursts with my own captains; I don't need an extra dose."

Wazzock looked to be the only one eating anything, trying out some of the fine cheeses available. "This would be a good scene for a play. The heroes have fallen into a dire trap, and an exciting plot twist is revealed. Should we exchange soliloquies? I've composed a few in my day. In the privacy of my cabin, mind you, and I forgot my captain's log on the ship. Pity, really."

All eyes around the table blinked in synchronized incomprehension. Wazzock shrugged and continued eating.

"If ye don't aim t'have me tear yer ears off," said Gloria, the first to rebound from Wazzock's introspection, "then ye might as well kill us now. We've nothing fine or fair t'say t'either of ye gormless pieces of Gull-bait." Wazzock nodded his vague agreement with this sentiment.

Lock sneered. "Personally, I had wanted to drive two bolts into your heads the moment you walked in the door. But, in a rare twist of fate, it seems either one or both of you is going to prove useful to me."

"Ah, but if this were a _good_ play, you would kill us once we helped you with what you needed."

"Oh, shut up, Wazzy."

Baltsar chose this moment to step in. "You have my assurance that if you cooperate, neither of you shall be killed."

"Oh, aye," Gloria mocked. "Tell me, sir, what's the price of a traitor's word these days?"

Before the Minister of War could respond, Lock placed his paws on the table in a businesslike manner and explained. "I need to know the whereabouts of a certain Mr. Switch." The quick glance that the stoat and rat exchanged told the fox they knew exactly who he was talking about. "He has some information which I require."

Gloria sniffed. "Can't figure out how t'get t'yer precious weapon on yer own, eh, foxy?"

Lock's fist tightened, but he maintained his composure. "I know where it is, but it seems that Switch is the only one left who knows how to open the door."

"Well, too bad. We don't ken where he is."

"All right, then," Lock growled. "Guards, shoot her."

"Just a moment," Baltsar commanded, halting the soldiers from taking action. "Gloria," he said, staring down the table at his subordinate. "I know that this must all seem treacherous to you right now, but you must understand, this is for something much bigger than pride and glory. You should know better than anyone that to take two steps forward, you must take one step back. The Ruston family should have its place in the new and brighter future, not fade away because of some petty sense of honor. Reconsider your option. Work _with_ us. You'll see it's all for the better."

The stoat didn't answer at first. She seemed almost in a trance, poking at her good paw with hook until it started to bleed. The way her shoulders were sagged, her face completely awash with mental anguish, Lock almost believed that Gloria would concede.

"Let me tell ye something m'Da' told me, and I told m'own kits, sir: 'Traitors burn in this and the next life. I'll make sure of it.'"

Baltsar sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. Lock, who had been clawing at his unused wineglass, slammed it on the tabletop, spraying shards every which way. "What is _wrong_ with you? What don't you get, you imbecile?! _You've lost_! You can hide behind all the pithy witticisms you want, but you still _lost_! You lost, and I beat you!" Shaking, Lock gestured towards himself. "I defeated the Vulpine Imperium. Not Scott. Not Drua. Me! I am the best in the world at what I do, and it's time you realized that!" Baltsar started slightly as Lock unsheathed his sword.

Wazzock had reached inside his coat. "Don't worry, Rusty, I have a cunning plan, which I picked up in the kitchens, which will be realized on the count of 'Run.'"

Gloria blinked in confusion. "What?"

"Will somebeast _please_ shoot them?!" Lock roared, stirring the bodyguards to actually aim their weapons.

"One, two, RUN!" The rat produced two green glass bottles and threw one of them at the candelabra on the tabletop. With a bright red flash, the table burst into flames. Smoke filled the room at an alarming rate, making it impossible to see much of anything. Another shattering sound was accompanied by even more fire erupting. Lock covered his mouth with his sleeve, trying to fan to the smoke away from his watering eyes.

All he could see was that Gloria Ruston was no longer in the room. "Oh, no," he said, voice slowly rising in volume. "Oh, no, not this time! You are _not_ getting away this time! I beat you, and this time you will _stay_ down!" Oblivious to the fact that his coat was one fire in some spots, Lock rushed forward, eyes bloodshot with obsessive rage.

Shoving the door of the banquet room open, the fox looked for any immediate sign of the stoat and rat within the hallway. Physical presence not forthcoming, Lock was fortunate to find, like a lighthouse beacon on a foggy sea, a little red dot on the surface of the floor. He poked the blood spot with his wooden leg, watching it smear accordingly - it was newly made. What was more, several similar spots were leading down the hall to the right. Without pausing to feel smug, Lock plodded along the blood trail, faster than he had gone in years

Oblivious to the ornaments and elaborate murals painted on the walls as he passed them, Lock's sole concern was on watching the trail progress. The red spots led him deeper into the palace, down a flight of stairs leading towards the ballroom in the basement.

Whereupon the blood spots conspicuously stopped.

Lock's whirlwind of a mind balked. There were no further signs of the trail going either left, right, or ahead. It was as if the stoat had disappeared. He wanted to hurl his sword at the ground. She _couldn't_ disappear! That was impossible! Curse it all, she was going to die, and he was going to kill her! No one simply...

A drop of blood fell from above, landing squarely on Lock's nose.

The General barely had time to look up before Gloria dropped on him from the stairwell rafter from which she had been hanging. Shaken from both being tackled and collapsing to the floor, Lock's disposition wasn't improved as a punch from the stoat knocked out a fang. "Ye half-sized cripple, I'll show how a real beastie wins a fight!"

Gloria's fist came flying towards his head again. Wrenching his arm free from under the stoat, Lock grabbed her paw just before the blow connected. Not wasting the opportunity, he drove his remaining teeth into Gloria's arm, causing her to wrench it back with a furious snarl. An added head-butt to her skull made the Captain of the Stoatorian Guard recoil altogether, freeing Lock from her weight.

Scrambling back to his feet, the fox dashed for the sword he had dropped after he fell. Grabbing the weapon, Lock whirled back on the still-down stoat, swinging the sword in a silver arc...

A metallic clang echoed through the stone halls as Gloria dragged her own sword up just in time to block the fatal slash. Kicking out with her boots, she caught Lock in the leg, causing him to stumble just long enough for her to scramble back and regain her own footpaws.

A duet of heavy breathing was all that could be heard within the confines of the stairwell as the two rivals, both bleeding from the mouth and nose, glared at one another. Testing a loose tooth with her hook, Gloria grinned wolfishly. "Well, well. Looks like Hop-a-Long Lock has a touch spring in his step after all." She lunged forward with her sword point, aiming for the fox's good leg. Managing to sidestep the stab, Lock was unable to shift his balance correctly to the wooden leg, falling flat on his back.

The stoat could barely control her mirth as Lock struggled to stand upright. "Look at ye: The grand Southern General! Yer about as useful on yer own as a newborn kit. What's the matter, foxy? Can't find yer balance without yer nursemaid? Hah!"

"Secretary," the fox grunted, back on his footpaw again. He made a move towards his dropped sword, but Gloria kicked it out of reach, who had moved closer to her prey. She wanted to laugh in his face before she killed him.

"What did ye think ye could do, sir? Did ye think ye could actually beat me in a fair fight? No army, no other beastie t'hide b'hind? Yer a broken down old wreck, and there's _no way_, right now, that Lock the Cripple can beat Gloria Ruston!"

It seemed impossible to Gloria that Lock had the ability to lift his wooden leg far off the ground, never mind actually being able to kick out with it and hit her in the head. Unfortunately for the Captain of the Guard, that's precisely what happened. A hard crack echoed in her ears as the superkick connected with her jaw, sending the stoat stumbling backwards through the doors of the ballroom itself, stopping only when she collided with a table.

Leaning heavily on the furniture, Gloria blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the stars from her vision. Her jaw was aching furiously, and it seemed likely that a good many teeth had been broken. So close was she to being knocked out that she almost didn't see the sword being swung directly at her head...

Lock cursed as his blade connected with the wood of the table, Gloria having just enough wit left to roll out of the way. Ripping splinters out the table as he tore the weapon free, Lock sneered at the glassy-eyed stoat shaking the cobwebs out of her skull. Taking advantage of Gloria's state, the General went on the offensive, swinging his sword at her and growing increasingly frustrated as his rival refused to sit still and stop blocking his attacks.

"Know how long it took to convince your whelp to come work for me?" he growled. "About five minutes! And with only ten gilders a week to start! Because he knew that this relic of an Empire was going to fail! Because it was guarded by his waste of a mother!"

A hard vertical arc seemed destined to cleave Gloria's skull in two, yet the stoat managed to parry the swing to the side, permitted her an opening to strike Lock's nose with the hilt of her own sword. With a shrill cry, Lock fell back, leaning on the table himself.

Once again, the two bruised, bleeding beasts exchanged heated glares, neither baring an ironic smile this time. "Right, that's it," Gloria muttered, spitting out a tooth. "I'm going t'do t'_you_ what I did t'yer precious Ambassador five years ago."

Paying no heed to the blood dribbling from it, Lock's mouth curved into a smug smile. "You mean, you're going to do everything you were supposed to do?"

The stoat paused in mid-step, eyebrows knit in confusion. "What d'ye mean?"

Her question was left unanswered as Lock had grabbed a vase from the table and threw it at the stoat. Gloria instinctively dodged the projectile and, rather than fall back, charged forward, bulling into the fox, sending them both crashing through the table.

Feeling a shard of wood piercing his back, Lock gasped, writhing in an almost serpentine fashion. One convulsion, fortunately, removed his head from where Gloria's sword impaled the ground. Eyes widening in shock, the fox looked up to see the stoat looming over him, sword leveled squarely at his heart...

The reverberation of metal on stone sent a dull pain up Gloria's arm, Lock having rolled out of the way just in time. "Will ye quit moving?" she snarled, trying to pull the blade free, only to find it had become stuck in one of the cracks in the floor. "Come along, ye malingering..."

The stall was time enough for another superkick to rattle the stoat's skull, sending her flying back into the wall. Bleeding, incensed, and in more pain than he had ever conceived possible, Lock gasped for breath, almost too weary to stand.

It was only three seconds before both beasts realized that the sword Lock had lost earlier was sitting tantalizingly close, directly between them. Like two wolves after the same prey, they lashed out to grab the weapon...

And Lock came up holding the point of the sword directly at the centre of Gloria's face. The stoat was almost cross-eyed glaring at the blade. Breathing heavily, the fox and stoat exchanged knowing glances. Her back was up against the wall with no place to run, and Lock was the one holding the sword. The self-satisfied smile returned to the General's face. "I was always better."

"Allow me to disagree."

General Lock had half of a second to register that the voice belonged to Captain Wazzock before the club connected squarely with his head.

_-by Lock_

end of week five. 


	68. Where Eggs Come From

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week six. 

**Chapter 67. Where Eggs Come From**

_by Wazzock_**  
**

The blood dripped down the club onto Wazzock's paws. He stared at the prone body of the fox general. He backed away.

_ "Wazzy," his father said, "What brings you here his fine morning? Did you bring me a swordfish? Or a seal? Of course you didn't bring me a seal. You believe they're too cute to kill. Heh. Too cute."_

"What happened to Mum?"

"She's just minding the counter, Wazzy. As she always does. A great find, your mum. You could almost say she was a prime catch."

"She's dead, Pa."

"Ah. Well, I'm certain she'll bring a pretty penny. Just need to smoke the meat and set it in proper preservatives. You know the drill." His father tossed him the cleaver. He caught it. The blood dripped down the blade onto Wazzock's paws.

Wazzock looked at his paw. His father whistled a tune as he wiped down the cutting board. He whistled until Wazzock used the cleaver.

The young rat told the Fogeys it had been self-defense.

They had no reason to doubt it.

Wazzock swung the club again and again. Smashing, hitting, cracking the wood of the immaculate chair, formerly of intricate design and velvet cushions, now looking like an oddly-shaped pin cushion without the pins.

"Ye a'right, then, Wazzy? Nice crack across the skull there. Ye stole the kill from me, but I s'pose I should be thankful."

He stopped. "Don't you know the meaning of 'run?'"

"Aye, but…"

"But _what_, Gloria? But _what_? Give me a reason. Give me a bloody reason. Run! Just RUN! Away. To regroup. To reconsider. To reorganize. Not to turn back and settle some bloody score that has no bloody reason in the entire bloody grand scheme of it all! Just say anything, Gloria. Just _try_ me. You can say anything cause I'm good ol' _Wazzy_, and I'll never take anything you say _seriously_. Well, to bloody 'gates with it!"

Wazzock dropped his club and brought his bloody paws over his eyes. It wasn't the same. It wasn't the same. It would never be the same. That moment was gone. That horrible pain was long ago. He'd moved on. He was past it. He needed to get past it. It didn't matter anymore. He needed to focus. He need to see the world as wanted to see it. He wanted the sea. He wanted to scrub the deck with his favorite mop. He wanted to just…

Someone wrapped their arms around him, then gripped, just enough to tell him there was care behind the action.

"Wazzy... if ye s'much as breathe a word about this t'anybeastie as long as ye live, it's not an exaggeration that I'll kill ye in the most painful way possible. Poorly-made puppets _and_ clowns will be involved, ye ken?"

Wazzock returned Gloria's hug. He released. He sniffed. He breathed. He picked up the club. "You know, that was beautiful action and all, but I just wasn't feeling it. So..."

Gloria punched him across the jaw. His nose started bleeding.

"Much better," Wazzock confirmed. He took another huff of a breath and pinched the bridge of his snout to prevent the blood flow.

"I'm sorry, Wazzy. I don't ken what for, exactly, but I'm sorry." Gloria sighed. Even with the eye roll attached, Wazzock accepted this.

He turned back to Lock. The eyes stared up at him: blank, confused. Wazzock knelt down and closed them. "May the Fates deliver ye to the Dark Forest, and if not, may the Dark Lord Vulpuz have mercy on your soul. I've heard legends that Vulpuz makes a smashing spot of tea. Just ask a dash of sugar if he asks though. Keeps the soul from melting away from the pureness of Hellgates-brewed flavor." He stood back up, and sighed. "Ah, here be the impressive ballroom. Haven't been to one of these in a good while. Last time I did, I believe it involved that chandelier."

"Aye. And ye've been banned from entering ballrooms with extensive light fixtures ever since."

"Seeing the beauty of the crystals up close was quite worthwhile, Miss Gloria."

"Glad yer back, Wazzy. So what do we do now?"

Wazzock looked back over his shoulder. "It would seem to me that since my promotion to the head of the forces was a well-executed sham, somehow conducted by the devious MinoWar, that you would be completely willing to take control of the situation."

"Aye. But considering the only thing on m'mind is _killing_ that worms-infested eyesore with a spoon, I thought I might get a second opinion. Just this once, eh?"

"Ah. I see the issue. Well, the usual standby, then. Keep moving forward, dance with the tunes they send our way and try to scamper one paw ahead of where they might be going." He kicked open the door. "Well, let's blow this fishstick stand!"

Gloria only stared at him, paw and hook akimbo.

Wazzock shrugged. "I heard it in a play once. I've always wanted an opportunity to use it in proper context. I guess in that case there would have to be a fishstick stand physically about, but…"

Gloria cracked a digit on her paw.

"Carrying on. We must find Commander Bait N. Switch and… wait a biscuit." He scampered back to Lock. "You know, I could be wrong, but I heard a few flicks ago that there was… Ah! Thank you, General Lock." He saluted the dead vulpine and came back with a tattered file. "_Now_, let's…"

"I've allus wondered what a rat without his tail would look like, Wazzy."

"Skipping past the one-liners, then. Gloria, you would make a horrible playwright, if you would permit me to say."

"Denied."

"Fair enough." They both scampered out of the ballroom.

They ducked and weaved through the halls of the palace, sniffing for any hint of Southern Army creatures. Wazzock had the nibbling memories at the edge of his mind. He tried to focus upon the suits of armor lining one of the more shiny halls, phantasmal guards in the low light from hanging lanterns.

They finally found somebeast from the Imperium side, a mustelid, who was thankfully exiting the loo. For, if he had not, it would have been more uncomfortable when a lady stoat grabbed him by the neck to inquire the whereabouts of a gibbering rat. Wazzock noted a disconcerting smell in the air. He took note to ask Gloria about the mechanics of mustelid musk at a later date.

It was about then that Gloria noticed that it was the Last Quartermaster, Cider. Wazzock for one, prided himself on knowing how to tell a weasel, a stoat, and a ferret apart from one another. But from Cider, he could make neither mops nor broomsticks. He knew it would be impolite to ask, and especially now, when more important plots were apaw, but since the tail to body ratios were failing him, he really wanted to know. He just needed to sneak it into the conversation somehow.

"You're just the creature we needed to see! A beast who knows his way around the depths of this maze of stone and shininess."

He wheezed.

"Miss Gloria, please release him. You really cannot retain any petty grudges about the scale-accuracy of your model of the _Stormchaser_ under the circumstances."

She released, throwing the mustelid to the floor.

"Now, Mis...ter? Is it 'Mister', yes? Well, for the sake of argument... Mister Cider, I believe you were going to tell us the location of Commander Switch."

"He said: 'Thataway.'"

Wazzock ignored Gloria. "You see, I have a friend waiting for me in the kitchens, and I believe he may be of service to the Imperium cause. He couldn't really fit through the more cozy nooks of the palace, however."

"Worrah 'Gates _is_ this creature, a badger?" Cider sneered.

"Wearet, actually."

The sneer fell away.

"Yes, but no worries. He will take orders if you state you come under my orders."

"_Yer_ orders. I…"

"Do you value your neck's ability to transfer food and air into your body?"

"You threatenin' me?"

"No. Captain Gloria is threatening you. And, if you do not say you come under my orders to this wearet, who may or may not be in the kitchens anymore, he will do the same thing Gloria might do, though with his teeth. It will be slightly messier either way."

The mustelid gaped.

"Ah, but to the point, are you a ferret or weasel or stoat or landshark?"

"Stupid rat! 'S obvious I'm a stoat."

"Ah, perfect," Wazzock said making a mental note, "Urie doesn't take a liking to the other three."

"He don't like retail agents?"

"No matter. Find Urie, the wearet, find as many Imperium beasts as you can, and hunt the palace for any intruders. Just tell Urie to sniff them out, and that he'll get a bucket more of fish tea for each one found. Please tell him he gets his teacups taken away if he bites them too much. So, will you take this task to paw?"

"I hate yew."

"I'll take that as a yes. Or, would you rather me have Captain Gloria organize the arrangements?"

Gloria raised her eyebrow and grinned maliciously for dramatic effect.

"…No."

"Good answer, my stoaty chap. Now, point us to where the rat of our search is again?"

He pointed down the hall to the left.

"So, get to task."

They watched him scamper crookedly down the hall.

"Ye really think he'll go looking for a wearet, Wazzy? I've ordered Cider t'do some mad things, but that takes all the biscuits and honey at teatime."

"Maybe. Urie will find him eventually. Told him a general plan and to keep an eye out for a creature with orders from me. Urie's a smart wearet. Cider will blurt everything the moment Urie pounces him."

"And what'll yer pet do t'the beasties who don't have information?"

"Urie's not a pet, Ms. Gloria. He's a friend. And I assume he'll lick them for flavor."

She sighed. "What timorous beastie from the depths have ye set upon the dwellers of these dank halls?"

"That's quite poetic, Gloria."

"That doesn't mean ye should write it on a scrap of parchment."

"It's just for my Captain's Log, really."

The rat and stoat moved in the direction the Last Quatermaster had pointed. They soon heard echoing clicks as they approached a set of doors at the end of another winding hall. It was almost as if some weapons were joining in battle, setting off one another, impact for impact.

Or so Wazzock thought until they opened the door and found Switch, the Emperor, Colonel Arbach, Lord Brewtus and Lady Akilina standing around a table. Most of their group from the previous rescue of the guards stood nervously about the room.

"Ah! How good of you to join us, Captains Pike and Ruston," the Emperor said, leaning across the green felt table, and using a stick to hit a white ball across it. It ricocheted off the edge of the table, then hit a blue ball, sending it into one of six holes around the edges. "We have been hearing the grandest of stories about your escapades. The guards you saved are in the infirmary. Would you care for some tea?"

"With great respect, Emperor Voss, this is not the time for tea."

Some of Wazzock's crew present gasped.

Voss shrugged. He moved around the table. He leaned over it again. His tail swayed. He closed his left eye. He hit the white ball again. One yellow, one green, left pocket.

"What better way to celebrate a grand success, Captain Wazzock? I heard that you even tamed the beast known as the wearet. Horrible creatures."

"Not as much as you would suppose, Emperor."

The fox leaned over the table and shot again. Red ball. Middle pocket. Wazzock couldn't help following the motion.

"Well, it appears you are both a little ragged about the edges and have something on your minds. Carry on."

"There is no easy way to say this, Emperor. You see…"

"Lord Baltsar is a treasonous, rot-nosed otter-lover!"

The Emperor paused, then shot again. Purple ball. Corner pocket. "Please explain."

As Gloria did just that, in her own brand of colorful language – Wazzock determined that if Gloria were a playwright, there would be a strict no-kits-in-the-audience policy – he noted how every shot of Emperor's game was flawless. The fox hit every ball in without a flinch. There was something odd about that.

"So... you need Commander Switch here. I don't see why not. He's not very good at billiards. Though he's won his fair share of matches at Ratgummy."

"Suspendisse potenti. Cras ut erat nisi."

"And he's a fine conversationalist."

"Yer Grace, may I suggest something further?" Gloria asked.

"Yes?" The fox leaned upon his cue stick.

"Cap'n Pike and I think it would be for the best that we keep ye under direct guard until Lord Baltsar is caught and the Southern Army is driven out of palace."

"So, you want me to accompany you to this supposed weapon you are attempting to find?"

"Yes, Yer Grace."

Wazzock almost thought he saw a slight flash appear in the Emperor's eyes. It was gone before he could confirm its existence. By then, a voice hissed in his ear, "Come outside, quickly." He turned, only to see a familiar tail disappear out the door. He followed it, leaving Gloria to explain her reasons to the Emperor. It would be for the best to have the Emperor around. He poked his snout out the door. A paw grabbed it and pulled him full bodily out. "Are you all right, Wazzy?"

"I'm fine, Cy."

"Something's not right."

"I'm fine."

"No, not you. You'll always not be quite right. I need to tell you something. Two somethings, actually. You understand, being apart is tricky, and there are some things that cannot be put in message bottles. I wanted to tell you right away, but…"

"No worries, dear." He rubbed her cheek.

"I'm having a... ratling, Wazzy."

"Where?"

"Where?"

"For dinner, perhaps?"

"No. I am... There is... Wazzy, do you remember that story I told you about where gull chicks come from."

"Oh, yes. I had a few nightmares after that."

"I'm not going to explain any further than that."

Silence.

"I'm not going to lay an egg."

"Ah. I really couldn't imagine how that would have been possible through such a small... no need squeeze my paw like that. You're rubbing the bones together. Though it makes a nice cracking, ow, ow."

"I will explain this to you _later_, then. There is also something more you should know. The MinoWar is not the only one in on this. I've been hearing whispers in corridors, finding scraps of notes in fireplaces, fending off intruders with cryptic messages. I warn you: Do not trust anyone here. Even before the war, I noticed things, Wazzy."

"What does that have to do with eggs? Joking!" he said as a fist appeared at a lower level than he thought necessary. He wasn't really joking, but he found the word fended off some of Cy's more vicious jabs.

"What I'm saying, Wazzy, is keep an eye out for anything odd from any of the ministers."

Wazzock rubbed his chin. "What about the Emperor?"

Cy squinted her eyes. "What _about_ the Emperor?"

"You see, if I were an emperor and were told that the highest officer of the military forces happened to be a traitor, I would at the least flinch, or at least miss a shot in my…what is that game he was playing?"

"Billiards, I believe. An exported game from the North."

"Can we get a table like that, Cy?"

"I'm not certain it's in our budget. Did you raid any ships this war?"

"... No."

"We'll just have to wait until you get a promotion."

"I'm in charge of the Imperium Land Forces," Wazzock said, hopeful.

"But I don't believe that included a salary increase."

"'Gates," Wazzock said. "Sorry for the language."

Cy tweaked one of his whiskers. "Now what were you saying about the Emperor?"

"Ah! If I were emperor, I would at least miss a few shots of whatever game I might be playing, whether it be billiards or drinking."

"True, I do note that is strange. I'm more suspect of the ministers, however. Well, considering you are taking the Emperor with Gloria, I shall take care of the ministers. I'll talk to them in my way, keep a close eye on them, and if there is anything amiss, I'll send a message to you immediately. You do likewise. But, even if you find enough clues to put the Emperor under question, do not tell Gloria."

"Why not?"

"Consider where Gloria's loyalties lie. She lives and breathes loyalty for the Imperium, and any creature who serves the Imperium serves the Emperor. Be careful, Wazzy. You may consider her a 'best' friend, but between saving the Imperium, and you from a rabid badger, she will save the Imperium."

"Well, the Imperium is unable to be saved like an average beast can be saved, so... Oh, you were speaking metaphorically."

"Glad you caught that this time."

"I'm learning."

Gloria poked her head out the door. "Wazzy, get in here!" she hissed, "D'ye have that blasted file?"

Wazzock pulled the file out of his coat. He tried to hide the fish stain across its cover with his sleeve.

"Well, hope yer happy. We're going on a quest t'find a weapon that may or may not exist."

"Doesn't the MinoInn know?"

"The MinoInn lost his head. I ken they found it again, but it's addled and he's talking more nonsense than Mr. Switch. Something about establishing a 'de-mock-racy' where everybeastie's judged by his species instead of his merits."

Wazzock nodded. He turned back to Cy. He took a moment to take in the sheen of lantern light cast over her gray fur. It brought him back to their wedding night. The fires blazing, the beasts singing, the crow deacon (from the Order of Fulgeo Mico Res), the Sean whimpering behind them as they kissed. That had been a grand Beat a Sean Day. He blinked and brought himself back to the present.

"Lt. Cythnia, you are to transfer the Ministers to the library. The Emperor will be with us. We shall separate the troops. We must head forth on this mission. The fate of the Imperium depends upon it."

"You're excited to be on a quest, aren't you?" Cy noted.

"You know me too well, dear."


	69. Diplomatic Immunity

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 68. Diplomatic Immunity  
**

_by Steep_

Steep woke up. The room spun very gently about her head. Or at least it would have been if she could see it, which she couldn't.

It was pitch black.

Steep opened her eyes. This did not seem to make a difference. Slowly, she pawed at her face. Nope, only one eye patch. Hm.

Her head hurt something fierce—not the usual lancing pains behind her eyes (not to say they weren't still there), but a gentler throb behind her skull. Her paws searched and found tenderized flesh. She could only hope that the dampness all around was from the moat water, and not blood. Nothing _smelled_ like blood, at least, or anything else. That was a relief.

She tugged her beret out of her mouth.

The last thing she remembered...

Darcy had shouted "Split up!" again, and despite her efforts to stay near Lock, Klist's soldiers had swept her away down another corridor. One that was being mopped. Steep groaned as a foggy image of a ferretmaid swinging a bucket around eased through her head, followed by a foggy image of a flight of stairs. What was that called, again? Some silly word the grass-munchers used...

Oh, yes. Karmic.

"If I'm dead," she announced, although she highly doubted this was the case, "then somebeast has some explaining to do. I'll have you know my uncle promised me a ballroom full of wingéd pygmy shrews in the afterlife. He can do that, you know! I demand to see my granmum!"

"Oh, Captain Steep, you're awake. And alive," the voice added. "Sergeant Pittersbottom, ma'am."

"Oh," Steep said.

"We're in a cell, ma'am."

"Oh. How many?"

"Just the three of us, ma'am. No casualties—the rest are with General Lock and Captain Klist."

"Any idea how long we've been here?"

"Hard to say, ma'am."

Steep sat up. Bits of her squelched, and other bits of her told the first bits to stop making so much noise, and then the first bits banged on the walls just to annoy the second bits some more, while a third set of bits shut the curtains and tried to stay out of it.

She was on a stone bench of some sort, and she was quite sodden, so it hadn't been long enough to allow her to be dry...

It was a stupid question, but she had to ask it.

"Why is it dark?"

"There were no torches, ma'am. The guards left to go find some. I don't think this place has been used in decades."

"How d'you figure?"

"When the guard took the keys off the wall, they crumbled to dust."

"That's promising..."

Steep began to feel along the walls, nudging mortar and bricks with her claws and shoulders. She bumped into the soldiers, and with some scrambling, they allowed her to continue her course until she found open air—interspersed with rusty iron bars. It was one of those weird Imperium jails, like the ones in Amarone, where one wall was all bars so the prisoners had no privacy. Not like proper jails that had a door three paws thick and a slot for shoving stale oatmeal through.

And of course whoever designed it had mustelids in mind. Maybe _Keinruf_ could have slipped through...

"Makes sense it hasn't been used," she grunted, going back to the brick wall. "There used to be a prison in the castle back home, until Malachite had it moved to the other side of the city. He didn't want them in the same building as him. Anyhow, if you really had someone criminal enough to need locking up in the Palace's own prison, they're the first ones shipped out to be executed at sea. No chance of escape out there." Steep paused. This _was_ the Vulpine Imperium. "Either that, or made Minister."

The soldiers chuckled. Steep's stomach growled. One of the soldiers yelped.

"We're all gonna die!"

"Sorry," she muttered. "Missed lunch."

"It was just the Captain's stomach, you twit!" A wet smacking sound, followed by another yelp. "Don't mind Private Wiffer, ma'am, he's just excitable. I've got some grasshoppers, if you'd like..."

"Save them for later, Sergeant."

There was, indeed, a loose brick in the wall. Steep slid it out carefully, dropping it onto the floor with a clank that sent dust up her nose. The bricks around it remained firm and unyielding, like the first time she tried to make clam chowder on her own. She peered through. More darkness.

"Here goes nothing," she said, sweeping her beret off and poking her head towards it. Her whiskers brushed stone, and her ears slid against her skull—but her head popped through effortlessly. She stretched her neck through and sniffed. Something smelled like ammonia.

"Can you hear me?" she said.

"Clear as day, Captain Steep!"

Steep withdrew. The Rule was simple enough to abide by, but it did not include clothing, which tended to snag. But there was no way in 'Gates she would be going commando in front of Klist's soldiers, pitch-black darkness or not. She emptied her pockets into her beret and placed it the stone bench, then tried again, squirming and kicking, pulling at the stone around her to haul herself through. Her uniform tightened and scraped, but she was making progress.

"Captain," came Pittersbottom's wavering voice, "if we die..."

"Mmf! What of it, Sergeant?"

"Could you, er... have your uncle... Well, me and the lads were thinking, you know. I'd quite like a nice little cottage, with a garden. And Wiffer, he wants a room with lots of pillows, an', an', like, lots of female wildcats–"

"Skinny ones, with sleek muzzles! I don't like those flat-faced ones I see around here."

"–right, skinny ones, and Private Gurny, he wants–"

"I wants a swimmin' pool full o' tapioca puddin', an' wingied pygmy shrews like you gets, aye, an' they'd serve me grapes. I likes grapes."

"–what he said," Pittersbottom finished.

"Tell you what," Steep said, her legs and tail flailing in the air now, "how about all of you just stay alive, and when we get home you buy all that stuff with your pension."

"Ooh. That works."

Suddenly, a light spilled onto her face. She held up a paw to her eyes, blinking furiously.

"Captain Steep?"

"Er... yes?"

She glanced around as best she could, and realised... she was merely squirming into another empty cell.

"Why are you stuck in the wall?"

"Lieutenant Devonshire?" she scowled, squinting still. "Stop shining that thing in my face."

Wriggling backwards was more difficult than it should have been. Her arms had gotten through, but there was no getting her paws near enough to the stone to push. She had to settle for planting her footpaws against the other side of the wall. She came free with a _pop_, and sat vaguely dazed as a pair of Stoatorian Guards wrestled the rusty cell door open. To her annoyment, no keys were used, no locks broken; the entire door portion came free, and they leaned it against the opposite wall.

She glared at Pittersbottom, who turned out to be a rat, but he only shrugged apologetically.

Pleasantrie, of course, bustled in immediately, smothering Steep with his feathers.

"Are you okay, Captain? They didn't hurt you, did they? Oh, you're all bruised—those brutes!"

Steep was staring past him at the Stoatorian Guards. Devonshire stood behind them, looking dapper as ever considering the state he was in (a little damper than usual... the scar did wonders for his looks, too.) He held his lantern up as if it were a clove of garlic and Steep was a soldier of the Régiment de Mort. Keinruf—or what Steep assumed to be Keinruf somewhere beneath all the scarves and what looked to be a pink stocking—clung to his leg with all four limbs, hitching a free ride.

"Actually," Pittersbottom said, "they were very nice about it... once the cleaning maids stopped hitting us..."

Steep fumbled for her cigar case. They were ruined from the moat, of course, and her matches were a clump of soggy sawdust...

Pleasantrie caught her gaze and stepped back.

"Don't hurt them, Captain. They're... on... our side."

"Where is my sabre, Mr. Pleasantrie?"

"It's upstairs, Captain. Captain, listen, umm..." Pleasantrie waddled in place for a moment, glancing behind at Devonshire. "Do you want to tell her?"

"Nuh-uh," Devonshire said, shaking his head. "You tell her. You're the messenger bird."

"You tell her, you're the Lieutenant."

"I'd rather you did, you've got more feathers to protect you if she tries anyth–"

"Tell me what?" Steep said, stepping out of the cell. The Stoatorian Guards fanned backwards, staying quiet—and well out of range.

Pleasantrie bobbed his head low.

"Lock's dead."

Steep 'hrm'ed. Who did that leave in charge? Darcy had seniority, but he was just a glorified clerk. And if Lock was dead, the chances of Darcy being alive as well seemed rather low. Klist would be a good leader—again, if he were still alive. She shuddered at the thought of Yool or Soothaus. Terion? That would be tolerable. Maxwell... nah.

Of course, Drua and Scott were still alive, last she'd heard. She realised she still had Scott's letter in her pocket. No time to read it now, though.

"What is the situation?" she asked quietly.

"Lord Baltsar sent us down here to collect the lot of you. Klist and Darcy are with him..."

"Lord Baltsar... the Minister of War?"

"Yes..."

Pip flinched as Steep took another step. She scratched at her scab, sighing. _It was almost tolerable for a while, there. That was nice._

"Truce?"

"Something like that..."

"Let's get going, then."

They filed into line; two Stoatorians in front, followed by Pleasantrie and the Devonshires, followed by two more Stoatorians, Steep and Pittersbottom, two Stoatorians, Gurny and Wiffer, and two Stoatorians again. _Six against eight_, Steep counted, _make that seven... but Pip's no good in a brawl, and Keinruf's a kit, so about five... and Devonshire somehow still has his sabre..._

The walk was a long one. There were a lot of floors in the palace. To Steep's general amazement, the only other beasts they ran into were a couple of chefs wheeling something out of a kitchen and an bright orange-furred ferret who was using the wall as a desk to jot down figures on a parchment. She couldn't help but wonder where all the actual _Imperials_ had gone to.

Bully Harbour had been nearly empty but for the Slurpees and other disagreeable lowlifes who had nowhere else to go. All the Insanely Rich beasts had fled with the middle class—and yet every estate along the way was nearly derelict, and Amarone turned out to be a ghost town (if crabs were ghosts.) Now the palace itself barely stirred. Steep felt her neck bristle at the idea. Was it really that big that they had never run across refugees, or was the Emperor so snooty he had sent them all off again—somehow without the Southern army knowing?

Or... had something else happened to them?

Steep's thoughts were sidetracked by Gurny starting to get chummy to break the silence.

"I never showed anybeast this afores," Gurny drawled, pulling a tattered portrait out of his uniform pocket. "'s my lovely Grena–"

"Stow that, Private," Steep snapped, glancing behind at him.

"But I wanna show–"

"Put the bloody picture away if you want to live!"

"Well, yes, I wanna live t'see my Grena–"

"Then put it away! Don't sh—_don't show it to them!_ Fold it up! Did anybeast see it? Anyone at all?"

"I think I saw an ear," Wiffer said.

"She's kinda cute, for a vixen," a rear Stoatorian said.

"Oh dear," Steep sighed. She gave the floor a long, sad stare. "You stupid fool." It was best to change the subject. "Mr. Pleasantrie, what exactly is our situation with our escort? What _happened_?"

"Well, Captain... there was a meeting. With Ruston and Baltsar and Lock. And it was odd. Baltsar and the General were acting almost chummy. Like they had some big joke they were pulling over on Ruston. She ran off and Lock tried to catch her and, well... it all went downhill from there. We've reconvened with Baltsar and some of his Guards, but I can't say I like it..."

_Chummy... In my experience, traitors don't usually _wait_ for a meeting in the enemy's stronghold... Lock brought us here. He had a plan, he had a contact. What was the purpose of the meeting? Would he...? No. Not Lock. He couldn't be _that_ angry with the other Generals and army officials... could he? No..._

But the Minister of War... Hm.

"This Baltsar," Steep said. "What is he? A fox?"

"Weasel," a Stoatorian said. Steep stumbled briefly, causing a ripple in the lineup. The Stoatorians behind her pushed her along, gently.

_Weasel. Of course. The Fates just had to throw that at me again, too. There's only two reasons to haul a prisoner out of a cell in the middle of a war—or a 'truce', or whatever this is—and Darcy should have been enough to fulfill one of them..._

"Are Klist and Darcy still alive?" she asked.

"Maybe," Pleasantrie said. "Probably."

"Hopefully," Devonshire said.

Steep's stomach growled again. She had to bite back a conniving grin.

_Sorry, General. I highly doubt any plan of yours could have worked without you anyway..._

"I'm starving," she said. "Pittersbottom, do you still have those grasshoppers?"

"They're a bit moist," the rat said, pulling a tiny sack out from a string around his neck, "but they're still tasty. The peanuts still crunch."

Steep accepted a pawful of them, and munched thoughtfully. There sure were an awful lot of suits of armour in this particular hallway; armour for every size of every species, in fact. A lot of them had weapons resting inside the massive gloves.

"Mr. Pleasantrie... Lieutenant? Would you like some grasshoppers?"

"Yes, please!" Pleasantrie said, craning his neck around. Devonshire nodded.

"Sure."

"Ahem," Steep said, brushing past the two Stoatorians between them. "Here you are, Mr. Pleasantrie... and one for you, Lieutenant... Ah."

The menagerie of scarves and leggings clinging to Devonshire's leg _was_ Keinruf. A single paw jutted out of the cocoon, pad-side up. Steep leaned down to press the last grasshopper into it...

"Run," she whispered, her other paw reaching out to grasp Devonshire's sword. The kit's eyes widened and he detached.

"Hey–" Devonshire started, then ducked as Steep swung the sword in an arc above her head. The Stoatorian Guards ducked, too. Pittersbottom was no fool; he shoved the one in front of him in the rump, causing the ferret to be bowled over into Pleasantrie, and both of them flattened the two Guards leading the way.

Steep turned to deal with the Guards behind her, leaving Devonshire to deal with the one behind him.

Gurny and Wiffer were not as lucky, being sandwiched between the two that Steep was menacing and the rear guard. They were seized immediately, daggers readied at their throats. Steep held the sword up defensively, waiting for them to make the first move.

"Mr. Pleasantrie... You may tell Lord Baltsar on my behalf, that the Southern Empire does not, and never will, enter into any kind of discussion regarding a 'truce'. You may also inform him that his mother was overly fond of codfish, and his father was a soiled kerchief. And if Klist and Darcy are still alive and being 'chummy', tell them they're bloody fools for thinking something like that could work out and–" a clang as one of the Stoatorians rushed at her, their swords bridging the gap between them– "if they have any sense of honour left, to die like gentlebeasts and take down as many of these sons-of-bakers they can before I put them to the sword myself! As long as we're here, we will _fight_ for our Empire!"

That was the last—if not sensible, then perceptible—thing anybeast said before Pittersbottom hauled a broadsword off a suit of armour and sent a fox's head flying across the hallway.


	70. Joe, Are You Busy?

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 69. Joe, Are You Busy?  
**

_by Gloria_

_He saved m'life._

It had been a lie when she'd told Wazzock that the only thing on her mind was killing Lord Baltsar. Certainly, that was among those matters foremost, but niggling her, playing over and over again was that mantra.

_He saved m'life._

Gloria eyed Wazzock's back as he and Cynthia split up the beasts in the room between guarding the ministers in the library and accompanying the Emperor to find the weapon. Then, when the rat turned around to glance at her, she returned her gaze to the Emperor. The fox was poring over the file, having snatched it out of her paw before she could have a proper look herself. Presumably, he wanted to know what was going on. Factually, so did she. But he was the Voss and would have his turn first.

_He saved m'life._

The stoat had never put much stock in life-saving. It was expected. It was what beasts were _supposed_ to do for her because she was a captain or a family member or a loyal member of the Vulpine Imperium. Wazzock, though... He didn't care about the Imperium. She knew as well as he did that the rat wouldn't blink twice if the Imperium ceased to be. She wasn't his captain. She wasn't his family. He was loyal to her because he could be – because he had _decided_ to be.

_Hmph! That rat's as mad as a hatter who's murdered his patter. Which isn't so far off, I'd say._

"What was that, Captain?" Gloria started. The Emperor was staring at her, the file closed.

"Yer Grace?"

"You were muttering something about mad hats."

"Oh..." She scratched her chin and had to suppress an annoyed growl when dried bits of blood began flaking off. It would seem she was destined to be bloody and battered before the Emperor. "I was just wondering about the file, Yer Grace."

"Is there a hat in the file?" Wazzock wanted to know, looking around and prodding at his own. "I've a smart one myself, but it never hurts to have two. I believe my mum said that once: 'Two hats are better than one.'"

"'Heads,' Wazzy." Gloria rolled her eyes. Of all the beasts to be worrying over.

"Well, of course I'd put it on my head, Rusty." The rat captain raised an eyebrow. "I'd look a bit silly with a hat on my tail."

"No... It's not... Ach..."

"As entertaining as it is to watch you bang your head against a Wall of Idiocy, Captain Ruston," Voss interjected, "I should like to get moving. I know the place where we need to head." He stood and made for the door.

"Ah... Yer Grace!" the stoat said, raising her paw after the fox. "Shouldn't we have a look at the file first?"

"Why?" He wrinkled his snout and glared at her. "I know where I'm going. Do you not _trust_ your emperor, Captain Ruston."

Gloria's eyes widened and she wrenched her body down in a bow, head low and ears pinned back. "No, Yer Grace! Please forgive me for questioning ye, Yer Grace! Of course I trust ye."

"Something in the file you don't want us to see, sir?" Wazzock piped up, then promptly took a great interest in the felt on the billiards table when the Captain of the Guard directed That Look at him.

"Of course not, Captain Pike," Voss said, waving the question away. "But I believe time is of the essence, yes? Best strike out now before we're struck out."

"That seems _very_ reasonable, Yer Grace," Gloria agreed. "Most wise." Wazzock had come up alongside her now, and as he opened maw to further insult the Emperor, the stoat used her hook to swipe the hat from his head and fling it across the room. It hurt her shoulder to be that vicious just now, but it achieved the desired effect. The rat captain went scuttling after his lost accessory with an 'Oh!' of dismay.

--- --- ---

For a palace under siege, with everybeast on alert, it seemed surprising to find such deserted corridors. Gloria suspected this had something to do with a wearet roaming the halls and eating creatures indiscriminately.

_It might've been a mistake bringing that brute in with us,_ the stoat realized far too late to do anything about it. On the bright side, it liked Wazzock – for whatever twisted reason – and that meant that it was on their side. Praise Voss for small favors.

"It wasn't very nice to knock my hat off, Ms. Gloria."

_Talking of Vulpuz..._

The rat captain sidled up to her as the Emperor led the way for Wazzock, Gloria, Switch, and a pawful of other beasts.

"I'm not nice, Wazzy."

"Ah. You make a compelling argument, miss." He nodded to himself. "Not a playwright, but perhaps a lawyer?"

"I'd torture the witnesses," Gloria sneered. Really? A lawyer. All they did was talk.

"It's a perfect match, then! That's exactly what lawyers do. At least I'm told that's what they do. The only one I ever met was the fellow who helped me and Cy with the marriage paperwork. He seemed a decent chap, but his footpaws smelled like mint. What do you think of that?"

"I think ye shouldn't go sniffing other beastie's footpaws," she replied. "It's rude."

"I have been told I am a _bit_ rude sometimes."

Gloria snorted and had to clap a paw over her snout to muffle the sound.

"Are you all right, Rusty?"

"There's a bit of blood this way."

Gloria and Wazzock looked at Voss. He had stopped and was twitching his whiskers at a puddle of blood congealing on the floor.

"Oh." Gloria glanced around, recognizing the corridor. "We're headed t'the basement ballroom."

"What?" Voss snapped. "How do you know that?"

The Captain of the Guard blinked, uncertain why her knowing this would be so offensive. "Er... Sorry, Yer Grace? Cap'n Pike and I dealt with General Lock down there."

"Ah! I see." The edge left his voice, but Gloria's discomfort remained. She couldn't put her claw on it, but something was off about this entire matter.

_He's the Emperor. He's just been told the MinoWar's a traitor. Of course he's on edge,_ she reasoned. That explained it.

"We should be very careful, Yer Grace," the stoat advised. "Some of those Southies might be down there. Allow me t'go first!" She placed her paw over her heart and bowed.

"As comforting as it is to have a moderately-incompetent, wounded, _crippled_ beast as my guard, Captain, I think you had best take some assistance."

--- --- ---

"Crippled? _Hah_!" Gloria grumbled as she, Wazzock, and Ursula Ullyanov, a wildcat Guardsbeast who had been watching the billiards game, made their way down the stairs, weapons at the ready.

"Well... you are just a bit, Ms. Gloria," Wazzock pointed out. He raised his left paw and mimed a hook with his index claw. He had the good sense to move said paw only moments before the stoat's blade would have given them a matching set of stumps.

"Shut up, Wazzy," Gloria growled.

_Curse that lass t'her teeth!_ the stoat seethed, an image of IceRain flitting across her mind's eye. But what was done was done. And what was now...

The trio reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. The door to the ballroom was half open and the muffled sounds of somebeast speaking could be heard. Gloria motioned for Ursula to fall in behind the door. Wazzock went to the side and the stoat tentatively peeked in. There was only one beast. Well, two, but who really counted corpses?

A rat, his uniform and fur covered in blood, was propping General Lock's body up against the wall, as if trying to make it more comfortable. "You really need to learn to let go of a grudge, sir. But it's nice to see you taking a break. You get so wound up at times..."

Gloria glanced at Ursula. She shrugged, confused. Wazzock's brows were knit together. They drew back to the bottom of the stairs.

"Trap?" Ursula suggested.

"Mad one, if that," Gloria murmured.

"I don't think so." Wazzock shook his head. "I recognize the chap from my days as an undercover agent in the Southern HQ."

"That was two weeks ago... and ye were there for less than half a day."

"You really have a way of ruining dramatic moments, Ms. Gloria. Anyway, I saw him there and do believe he's some sort of secretary-type chap. Spit spot of ink on those paws would be my guess. I didn't catch his name, but I understand he worked for the General and was... rather fond of him."

"Fine. We can just kill him an' then-"

"We'll leave him be for now," Gloria said, cutting Ursula off.

"Ms. Gloria...?" Wazzock asked, some concern in his voice. "Are you feeling all right?"

She blinked, then added, when she realized they'd misunderstood, "I don't want t'keep him alive b'cause I _like_ him. It's just best t'have him in case we need a beastie t'interrogate. Who better than the personal secretary t'the General of the Southern Armed Forces, eh? And it still might be a trap, s'keep yer wits about ye. I'll go in first and secure the rat. Ms. Ullyanov, ye follow and check the corners. Wazzy, yer last, s'mind the door."

"What if it is a trap?" Ursula asked.

"Kill 'em b'fore they kill you."

"You seem to be hitting your stride, Ms. Gloria. Change of heart about taking the lead?"

"This is what I _do_, Wazzy. Wars? I'll admit they're not m'strong suit. But this sort of thing..." Her eyes gleamed and she grinned, displaying a cracked, gap-filled smile that had been pristine only a short time ago. "I ken I'm fair good at it."

--- --- ---

They need not have worried. Bursting into the room, no crossbow bolts or arrows threatened them. It was only the rat and the corpse. They called the others down, and Switch was brought forward.

"Now, then. Commander Switch," Voss said, "I believe this is where you take hold of matters."

The rat scratched his ear and surveyed the ballroom. He mumbled something incomprehensible, then walked to the wall to the left of the entrance and started shouting out words in groups of three and four, moving about seemingly at random. It was then that Gloria noticed the checkered rose and white marble making up the floor of the ballroom. She hadn't been terribly interested in the décor when it was assisting Lock in beating the blood out of her.

"What's he doing, then?" Voss wondered aloud.

Gloria had been considering that and found herself replying in unison with Wazzock, "Chess." The stoat blinked, then frowned. Whenever she was with Wazzock for extended periods of time...

"He's playing chess, I believe," Wazzock continued. "Calling out moves and making them."

"But... he's playing with only one piece? With no opponent? That's nonsensical."

"Yer Grace, this is the Vulpine Imperium. I ken this is about as 'sensical' as we get for riddles. At least we're not playing word games, aye?"

"I believe he's won," Wazzock said.

Switch was grinning to himself as he crouched down and pried up a piece of marble. Beneath it was a ruby the size of a kit's skull. It was cut in an ellipsoid shape and set in a layer of granite.

"What in all the Imperium?" Gloria and the others crowded around as Switch displayed the fruits of his labor. "Is that the weapon, then? A stone big enough t'brain a badger?"

"Not quite, I think," Wazzock said.

"In aliquet diam nibh," Switch explained. "Donec scelerisque mattis nulla, at laoreet erat rhoncus sed. Aenean vulputate quam a lectus tempor ut tempus ante lacinia."

"Really?" Wazzock grinned. "May I have the honors?"

"Acru odio."

"What does it do, Wazzy?" the Captain of the Guard asked, unable to pick out Switch's meaning this time.

The rat captain beamed at her. "Just watch!" He slammed his paw down on the ruby... and absolutely nothing happened.

"Well?"

"Er..."

A beat, then there was a mechanical click and the ruby sunk into the granite. Seconds later, a rumbling filled the room, and the floor began to shake violently. Gloria stumbled to Wazzock and found herself half-strangling, half-hugging the rat as she tried to maintain her balance.

"What the 'Gates did ye do, ye moron?" she screamed at him.

But he didn't have to answer. As everybeast watched, a crack appeared in the left wall of the ballroom and began to widen, until it revealed a room beyond. Finally, the walls ground to a halt, and with a loud _slurp_ from somewhere beyond, the world stopped shaking.

"Ms. Gloria?"

"Aye, Wazzy?"

"You're still hugging me."

"I'm collecting m'self and deciding whether t'kill ye or not."

"Ah... Well, in the interim, perhaps you'd like to help the Emperor collect _him_self? He's taken a rather nasty fall, it appears."

It was then that Gloria realized that she had stupidly hung on to Wazzock instead of offering herself to the Emperor. Extricating her limbs, the stoat hurried to the fox and knelt before him. "I'm sorry, Yer Grace! I'll have m'self and Cap'n Pike flogged as soon as we've dealt with the matters at paw. I'm s'sorry, sir!"

Voss took her proffered paw and rose shakily. "It's... quite all right, Captain Ruston. I shall be better directly, and we seem to be getting somewhere." He nodded to the new room.

"Blimey..." Ursula said. She was the closest to the opening and walked toward it. "Who'd have thought there'd be this sort of thing here?"

"Ms. Ullyanov, wait!" Gloria called, as the cat moved into the new room itself. "There might be-"

A bolt shot out of the right side of the room, throwing Ursula into... a wall of spikes that had swung from the left. With a shriek, the wildcat was lifted into the air and dangled a moment before falling to the carpeted floor... which was apparently a disguise for stakes. As a final mercy to the somehow-still-alive cat, what appeared to be an anvil from a blacksmith's forge fell from the ceiling onto her head.

"- traps."

_'Gates..._

Ten seconds passed before Wazzock summoned the powers of speech. "Well... that looked... a bit uncomfortable."

"I'm not going in that room!" one of the other beasts who had accompanied them squealed, falling back behind another, who in turn tried to hide behind her.

"No, I think that would be unwise," Voss agreed. "Perhaps we could use that fellow over there?"

The Emperor pointed to the Southern rat. The creature did not appear to have been phased through the entire ordeal. He had shifted Lock so that he was cradling the general's head in his arms, but otherwise, remained unmoved.

"Ah, he'd be more useful for interrogation if worst came t'worst, Yer Grace."

"Oh? Well, are you volunteering to step in and trigger all the traps yourself, Captain? Because I don't really see another way about things."

Gloria found herself focusing on the Southerner, listening as he related various facts and figures regarding the army's upkeep to the General's body, and that he was glad Lock had stopped being so jumpy whenever he appeared. She looked away and noticed that Wazzock had been following her gaze.

"What if we just asked those Southerner chaps upstairs for a bit of help?" the rat captain suggested. "Like Mum always said: 'A smart chap wears more than one head.'"

"'Hat,' Wazzy," Gloria groaned. "'A smart chap wears more than one _hat_.'"

"Ah... that does make a touch more sense, come to think on it. But the point stands!"

"_What_ point?"

"We should ask them for help."

"Ask the Southies for _help_? Ye must be joking."

"Er... persuade them?"

She pursed her lips. "Not if the sun were falling from the sky and the dolphins were walking on land."

Silence. "Well, in lieu of any better ideas forthcoming, shall we break for the night?" Voss wondered with a yawn.

"Stop now, Yer Grace? With the weapon not more than a stone's throw away?"

"As I said, Captain Ruston: You are welcome to step forward and set off every trap ahead of us. I suspect your husband would appreciate the acquisition of all your assets, though I understand that you would leave him without an heir."

The stoat's hackles rose, but she maintained her calm in addressing the Emperor. "Ye make yer point with a jagged edge, sir."

"Indeed. In any case, it looks as though, once again, you could use some tending to, Captain. We know where the weapon is. We have access to it. We know of Lord Baltsar's plot and are currently dealing with it, I presume. We need only secure this room for the night, and I should be happy for the rest. Bit of a long day, you understand."

She blinked, then bowed. "Of course, Yer Grace. I wasn't thinking of yer comfort. Forgive me."

He waved his paw. "Yes. Yes. Now, how about we barricade that door, then you send off one of these beasts to fetch some food and bedding for us?"

"Sorry, sir," Wazzock put in, "but would you be implying there are various secret passageways leading throughout the palace, specifically with an entrance to such a passage from this room?"

"Is there a problem with that?"

"Oh, no." Wazzock shook his head. "It's just that Ms. Gloria now owes my wife... 100 Gilders was it?"

--- --- ---

They used the remnants of the table, the chairs, and the spears from the decorative armor standing at the four corners of the ballroom as a barricade. The rat – they'd come to discover his name was Darcy through his ramblings – did not object to this or show any sign that he was even aware it had occurred. He did accept a mug of soup from Wazzock when the scouts returned with food, but ended up trying to feed half of it to Lock's corpse. They decided for everybeast's peace of mind that it would be better to cover him with a sheet. Darcy didn't seem to care, continuing to chat away about paperwork and meetings.

Gloria tended to her wounds while the others laid out the bedding. Getting hurt was never a pleasant activity for her, especially as it reminded her just a little too much of her younger days. There hadn't been any hospitals or healers then, though. Da' didn't tolerate a kit who couldn't patch herself up.

"Let me help you there, Ms. Gloria," Wazzock said, approaching and sitting down beside her. He tied the bandage she had been working at to her arm in a thrice. "Bit tricky doing it yourself with two paws, let alone one, eh?" She scowled at him, but didn't say anything. He was right, and that was more annoying. "Ms. Gloria, I wanted to ask you something. You remember we talked about traitors?"

"They should die."

"Yes. Very good. Very direct. I've always liked that about you, miss." He rubbed the back of his neck, looked at her, then looked away.

_That's a sight._ To hear Wazzock asking an awkward question was nothing novel. For him to be awkward _about_ it, though...

"I just wanted to ask: When you think of being loyal, is it to an idea? A place? A beast?"

The stoat considered this. "All three."

"And which of those is most important? If you had to choose between the Imperium and me, say?"

"Where's this coming from, Wazzy?"

"Please. Just answer the question, Gloria."

"I don't know how t'answer it. I... Ye saved m'life, Wazzy. Ye didn't have t'do that." Another scowl. "I don't know what t'think anymore. Lord Baltsar's a traitor, and maybe more beasties, too. I thought I was loyal t'him, but he turned his back on the Imperium. I don't even know who I can trust anymore!

"First Pylaris, then Lord Baltsar..." She rubbed her forehead with her paw. "Everything's gotten s'complicated. I want Regi. He'd know how t'deal with something like this better. But, I know I can say this, Wazzy: I trust _you_. For whatever yer worth, I trust ye. Ye wouldn't let me die, and as much as I hate ye sometimes, ye wouldn't turncoat on the important things."

They sat in a comfortable silence for the first time in days, then Wazzock said, "This would be the part of the play where we hug and promise never to miss a teatime again." Gloria smacked him upside the head. "Ah. There we go. Direct, as always! But anyway, I wanted to talk about something else, as well. I keep coming back to this matter of persuading some Southerners to work with us for a bit."

"No," Gloria stated flatly.

"Er... _forcefully_ persuade them?"

"Yer talking about capturing them?"

"Yes! That's the word! 'Capture.'"

Capturing a beast or two to throw into the traps ahead _could_ prove useful. "Ye know... that might just work."


	71. Our Reason for Defying Reason

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 70. Our Reason for Defying Reason  
**

_by Pip_

Pip lost all sense of reason when the tod's head landed next to him. The bird began to gibber and shake and was two heartbeats from taking wing out of the hellish display of hatred when he heard a whimper cut through the snarls and grunts of the battle.

Across from him, Ruffy was cowering in a corner, hiding behind the leg of a suit of armor. The kit was curled into a tight ball, almost completely hidden behind his myriad of scarves. The bright sphere jumped each time a beast bellowed with pain, or sword met sword.

"Ruffy!" Pip called out, scrambling over a fallen stoat and working his way towards the kit. He had just –

"Ooof!"

"'Gates! Stupid bird!"

One of the combatants half-tripped over Pip, then leveled a kick at him, bowling him over with the force. Pip grimaced and staggered against a wall, wheezing as he tried to rescue his lost air, forced from him by the blow to his gut. Only instinct forced him to hop back a pace, avoiding another kick from the beast.

"Mr. Pleas-- argh, Pip!" Steep swung about and gutted the beast from behind, spraying the bird with a warm shower of blood and innards.

Pip's gag reflex went on vacation, then, seeking cooler, less-humid climates. He felt a paw drag him up by his goggles and toss him to his feet. Steep's voice was a hiss as he turned back to the fight. "I told you to get out of here! We've got it taken care of."

So, tailfeathers tucked, Pip scrambled away from the fight. As soon as he got around the corner, he leaned back against the wall. _I've got to... I need to get out of here-- Ruffy! But the Captain said she'd..._

He took a couple of deep breaths, wincing at the pain in his stomach, but feeling the panic start to ebb.

"Think, bird," Pip said. "What can I _do_?"

_Find out what's going on, to start with..._

Pip slipped farther down the corridor, heading back towards the nearest window. _If I can find Ruston, maybe I can find out what's going on. Nice big palace like this... bound to be a few rafters I can wait in. And then come back and find the Captain and try to put everything back together..._

The kit's whimpers continued to echo in his memory. It had stopped being a lark.

~~~~~~~~

The balcony below was a bright crescent in the night – a tidepool in the dark ocean that was the inky wall. Pip alighted, his eyes narrowing at the brightness of the lanterns.

"Why, hello there."

Pip's heart leapt like a hunted hare from a dogfox. He felt the color drain from his feathers. "Erp!"

"Still as eloquent as ever, Mr. Plover?" The voice's owner was inside the chamber, backlit.

_At least he seems short..._ Pip thought to himself as he hunkered down on the edge of the balcony. _And it's a good thing it wasn't Ruston finding me._

"I am." The bird's reply was as cordial as a spurned noble.

"Mmm..." The beast stepped out towards Pip and adjusted a hat larger than the head it sat upon. "You know, I just might make a request of you. Seems I've no feather in my cap, poor thing got lost in the excitement downstairs."

Pip gave a soft sigh. _It's just that rat captain that took care of Yool._ "Except the victory on the road to the Harbour," he quipped.

"Touché, sir." Wazzock moved over to the balcony rail and leaned on it, looking over the edge to the dizzying depths; they were high enough that the ground was swallowed by greedy darkness. "Feels good to be out of that horrid, dank underground. You know, it's a bit like being back on the _Chaser_, up here. Sitting in the crow's nest on a foggy night, it felt like you were just flying above the waves. You knew you had a whole crew beneath you, dozens of beasts keeping you moving, but for that shift you felt alone. A good kind of alone, though, you know? The kind where you can just sit and listen and think and let the drunken yells of fights over who could belch the loudest lull you to sleep."

_Why does he always jabber on at me?_

"I... suppose I could see that. I tried migrating once..."

The rat's ears perked, and he turned his full attention to the bird. "Really? That seems downright smashing. Romantic, a bit. To just up and leave for a far-off land each year, turning over a new feather, so to speak – no offense, of course, I know birds are sensitive about the molting thing. Sure, missing out on the winters might be nice, but what about the little things? Mr. Coates on the corner of Elm and Gullwaddle makes the most wonderful Non-fish Fishsticks in the Imperium; snowball fights icy enough to knock a creature senseless; the feeling of tea burning down your throat to thaw the hide on an icy morn... how would I find substitutes in a warm foreign land? Or what about family?"

Pip shrugged. "I was young and didn't have one. I can't say I liked it much. It's like a visit to the mainland or Southsward or, for you, the Southern Empire. It's something worth trying, but I'd never want to do it again. For one, you _fly_. I mean, sure, I fly every day. But every moment for weeks on end?"

"And that's a problem?" Wazzock moved closer and began looking the bird over.

Pip shied away from the rat and raised a brow, but continued. "It is. Imagine trying to climb up rigging constantly. That's about how close – Can I help you?"

"Oh, just having a look, is all," Wazzock answered, lifting a wingtip and spreading the primaries. "So amazing..."

Pip snatched his wing away from the rat and clacked his beak. "Hey! I need those in one piece!"

"So fragile! And all that space between, these little layers of rufflable items between you and plummeting to certain death... and yet somehow you can fly with them."

"Yeah... it's a talent."

Wazzock glanced down at the bird's plumage once more, before finally relenting with a shrug. "Sorry. I've just been looking for a distraction with everything that's been going on around here."

It was Pip's turn to perk up. The bird took a hop towards the rat. "Really? Like what?"

Wazzock was silent for a long moment. Pip was just beginning to curse his luck when he heard the rat inhale, then begin to speak. "Well, I suppose I can tell you about it. You do carry all of our most sensitive information, after all. A little more can't hurt – which reminds me! About that letter you gave me last time --"

"A mistake!" Pip cut him off, his voice shrill.

"Oh, I know that." The rat waved away the bird's agitation with a paw. "You know that most letters never end up delivered, anyway. They remain ideas unsaid between two points in time, never to reach their destination, their purpose unfulfilled for eternity."

"I heard the gulls use them as nests," Pip muttered.

"Oh! Well, I guess that's a smashing alternative purpose – need to consider the well-being of the eggs – and would explain a few things... But, I wanted to say that I'm afraid it got lost in the last few days' melees."

"It's all right, sir. I'm sure the recipient would understand."

The rat glanced back at the palace, then to the plover. "Well, the powers that be – Rusty in particular – may not like it, but I feel I should send a letter back to the ol' _Chaser_. I mean, can you imagine having to sail about for over a week with neither a captain nor a clue about the war's progress? After all, a boat without a captain's like a teacup without a saucer, a snail without a shell, a side table without a doily!"

If the plover had ears, they would be fully alert. As it was, he swore he could feel muscles behind his beak trying to tighten. "Need a scribe then, sir?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. I know my way around a quill... again, no offense."

The bird reached into his tube and took out a spare bit of parchment, then removed his nib and a tiny inkwell.

"You know, I've heard the soldiers using a word for a while now," Wazzock commented, crouching to watch as Pip slipped the nib onto a claw, "and I've wondered what it really meant, but... cor."

"Hmm?"

"That has to be... I mean it's so small, but so ingenious! A pen on your claw. I suppose you don't really have paws, so you'd have to improvise, but..." Wazzock stopped talking and bent down further, slipping off his boot. He wiggled his toes and made broad writing motions in the air, as if he was holding a pen between them. "It certainly seems difficult."

"You've no idea, sir. The letter?" Pip tried to keep his voice level and a smile off of his beak. _The rat was certainly infectious..._

"The letter!" An over-exuberant motion sent Wazzock back onto his tail. "Let's see... 'Dear,' … 'Dear,' … who's left? Err... 'To my loyal crew'. That's better."

As Wazzock began to speak, Pip felt his mouth run dry. Twice the bird stopped out of shock before furiously scribbling his way up to speed.

"How was that? Sound pleasant enough? Too much business, wasn't it? I always hate letters like that. I mean, you took the time to put quill to parchment, you might as well ask about the kits and whether the missus still flattens the flan, right?"

"I think..." Pip's voice trailed off as he glanced over the document before him. "I think it's the worst thing I've ever read. Err... heard. Written."

"Oh, dear... I do ramble, don't I --"

"Not that!" Pip's voice was a squeak as he cut off the captain. "No, I mean all of that... what they've – who would even think to..."

The rat sat back against the railing and swept his hat off, running a paw back over his ears. "I suppose when you put it all out there like that, a migration doesn't sound too bad. Grab the missus, and..." He trailed off.

"And?"

"Well, I suppose it's more than the missus, now, isn't it?" Wazzock gave a wry little smile. "You have any chicks back at the old nest, Mr..."

"Maplefeathers. And I..." The golden plumage on the plover's cheeks threatened to imitate rubies. "I haven't. I've been so... No – that is, none for me."

"Well, I suppose you've got a few years yet, a young beast like your--"

A groan from the bird interrupted the captain. "I'm not young! Why is it that none of you landwellers can't tell a fledgeling from a grayfeather? I'm almost two-score years, now!"

Wazzock was silent, again, as he regarded the bird. "Older than me, and still no one to take on your name – assuming you bird chaps hold that tradition... you're not... that is, you and the lady-birds..."

"Squawk!" Pip moved from ruby to garnet. "Of course not! Maeve! Her name is Maeve!"

"All right, that's all right..." Wazzock held his paws in front of him as if blocking the volume of the objection. "Not that a chap would be ashamed; had a fine beast under me who near-fainted at the nearest touch of a lady... or some of the females on the ship for that matter."

Pip shuffled uncomfortably, muttering as he smoothed his feathers back into place. "Though, to be honest, sir... I've spent more time with another female than my own mate."

Wazzock clicked his tongue. "That'll always get a beast in trouble. 'Never bait your line with a perfectly good fish,' as the saying goes."

Pip snorted. "She's a weasel."

"Well," Wazzock said, "that would make things tricky. After all, if she ever got too mad, or found out about your lady back home, things could get tricky. Hard to explain your way out of a cooking pot, you know. I talk myself into a cooking pot on a regular basis _without_ such trickiness."

"Not like that!" Pip flapped in place, his beak in a grimace. "She's a friend. I think. She's something, anyhow."

"You're not sure if she's a friend?"

"I don't know. Maybe. That is, she did me a good turn a while back, and I've tried to do the same, now, but she's a bit unpredictable."

The corners of the rat's mouth twitched upwards. "I know about that..."

"And I know that more than anything, she does _need_ a friend, but she's making it intentionally difficult."

"Mmm hmm..." Wazzock seemed more attentive, now. "Go on."

"And I've seen her better side, I know it. She just... it's like she's a pendulum. One moment she's smiling, or at least not-yelling. She's treating me like any other beast. The next she's going and betraying all sensibilities in an exceedingly violent and angry way."

"Birds of a feather, my feathered friend. You know, I've always found it's better to err on the side of friendship. Here I am, after all, talking to messenger like we're old neighbors."

"I was wondering about that..." Pip settled back down and glanced back at the open air behind him.

Wazzock shrugged. "You're an interested ear, I suppose. Or... something. Not an ear. How do you fellows hear, then, without ears? I mean, I've seen a beast lose an ear and still hear from that side, but he'd had years of practice. Oh... there I go again, treating you like an experiment."

"It's better than what I usually get," Pip replied matter-of-factly. "An entree."

"Oh, goodness no!" the captain said. "I couldn't eat you now. I mean, plover _is_ wonderful. Again, no offense, but you would be scrumptious in a pastie with some thick gravy-- But I couldn't eat a beast I'd just conversed with. Or introduced myself to. And what if I ever met your Ms. Maeve? What would I say? 'Sorry, ma'am. Your husband was just too delicious for his own good.'?"

"Then, should I remove myself and thus temptation?" Pip replied with a grin.

"Perhaps. It's been a while since I've had – no, I jest. Still, perhaps it is best if we go our separate ways. Rusty might send someone out to find me, and you have a message to deliver."

Pip rose and gave a short nod. "It has been a pleasure, captain. Truly, it has."

The rat gave a bow. "Likewise, to you, Mr. Maplefeathers."

Pip hopped to the railing and turned his head to one side. "Oh, and captain?"

"Yes?"

"As interesting as you think we birds are, promise me you won't try your paw at flying."

"Oh, goodness no. Did that as a ratling off my mother's bed. Thought I broke my front teeth."

"All right, then... you won't try with a handful of feathers or some other rot?"

"Perish the thought, sir."

Pip nodded and took off. The night air carried in his wake a waning phrase: "Handful of feathers... it'll be more'n--"

~~~~~~~

_Where in the name of Malachite's sixth toe did those two run off to?_

Pip stalked down the corridors of the palace, muttering under his breath. He had passed the cells three times, now. There had been a fight – he had known that there would be. There were bodies strewn about in a predictably chaotic way. _If she was angry enough, then--_

Something caught his eye, this time around: a single, colorful scarf.

Pip picked it up. It was speckled in blood.

_Ruffy?_

He tore off down another hall, his eyes scanning the ground for another of the gauzy articles. He passed more carnage. Killed servants, beasts of every--

_Another!_ Pip pounced on the blue material and held it up; this one was free of blood. Pip leaned back against a wall and took a few deep breaths, clearing the fog from his head.

_Okay... he might be okay. Stupid! Why did I run like that before! I should have known that the Captain and Devonshire couldn't look after their own tails, not to mention Ruffy!_

The bird hopped into an alcove and began to talk quietly to the empty hallway. "All right, Pip. If I were the Captain, where would I go? Strange palace that's full of enemies. A nincompoop and a child tagging along... I'd be angry, stressed – mad with rage, really – and I'd need..."

Pip smacked himself in the forehead with a wing. "The wine cellar!"

As the bird followed the path of carnage, looking for every downward passage he could, he muttered to himself further. "I wonder if they would have a 'grog cellar' here... or a whisky cellar. I'd never thought about it, but if they have more than one, who knows where the captain might go. I just... Ah!"

The bird hopped forward with glee, snatching up a third scarf. "Ah ha!"

Half an hour of this passed. Mutters. Scarves. Bodies. Smashed things. Then, a sign. "About bloody time I find this horrible--"

Pip opened the door and felt the end of the sentence fall out of his beak in a half-garbled mess. The verbs made an awful noise as they hit the floor.

The Captain and Devonshire. Together. On the floor. Some bits of fur were showing.

The bird stood there for a long moment while the cogs in his head restarted. There, off to one side was Ruffy, safe and snoring. Pip shrugged, moved over by the kit, and settled down.

_Whatever makes some beasts happy... at least the Captain _looks_ clothed._

Pip wasn't going to look too closely, though. He might not get his beak back.


	72. Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 71. Where Have All the Flowers Gone?  
**

_by Seth_

Seth believed that dying for one's country was a fine idea. Provided you did it at home, at an advanced age, and preferably in a comfortable bed. And, if you were really lucky, you wouldn't even realize you'd done it.

Dying for your country in the palace of a foreign country, at the paw of a foreign palace guard, using a very sharp, pointy object was not something he wanted to experience.

Therefore, he put into practice the popular idea that you did the other beast a favor by letting them die for their country first. Unfortunately, not everyone shared his views.

Pittersbottom was dead, offed by a stoat who in turn had been almost hacked in two by Steep. Seth stumbled back and dodged a blow aimed at his head by a wildcat. Why did Steep have to take _his_ sword? She wasn't even using it properly!

He found the hilt of another sword on one of the suits of armor and, dragging it out, parried a blow from the one remaining guard and ducked under a slash aimed at his neck. From the corner of his eye he could see Ruffy staring at them with wide eyes as he huddled by himself against the corridor wall.

Why had the blasted bird run off? He'd been the shield for the little kit and he was gone, doing fates knew what. Hopefully getting eaten.

Steep was kicking at the stoat's head she had killed. It flopped about on its weirdly bent neck with each blow.

"Captain, stop!" Seth shouted.

Keinruf whimpered.

She kept kicking the stoat's head. Blood was spewing across the floor each time her boot made contact. Then, it crunched as the skull gave way.

Seth snarled and impaled the last guard on his sword and moved towards her.

"Captain Steep, stop it! He's dead!"

She was muttering now, her boot turning the thing's head into a pile of oozing mush.

"Priscilla!"

Seth grabbed her shoulders and twisted her around to face him. "Stop it!"

She snarled at him and scratched at his face with her claws. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her back into the wall. The weasel struggled, kicking, gnashing her teeth, and then she screamed.

Seth winced as the noise hit his ears. It was as if the sound was being ripped from her very soul and dragged across the burning coals of agony and despair.

"Steep!" He shouted, trying to get through the torment. If there was something he could reach. "Priscilla!"

The scream ended in a sob. Seth stiffened as she fell forward toward him, her mouth opening as she gasped for air, her body engulfed by another wracking cry of anguish.

Slowly, Seth let go of her wrists and pulled her into a cautious hug.

"It's all right. It's all right." Was that what you were supposed to say? He clenched his teeth and gingerly nuzzled her head. "It'll all be all right," he whispered.

Then, he reeled back as her head connected with his.

"Don't touch me, Lieutenant!"

Seth stumbled back, moaning. Glaring at him, Steep wiped the tears off her face and picked up the fallen sword.

"I'd like that back, actually. If you _don't_ mind," Seth growled, rubbing his head. The slash Gloria had given him still smarted, and with Steep's rebuttal of his tenuous comfort, and the stench of death all around… a headache was fast moving in and setting up house.

Steep rolled her eyes.

"Captain-"

"Not now, Lieutenant." Steep shuddered once as she surveyed the hallway, and then passed him his sword once she was content the Stoatorian Guards were all dead. "Where's Mr. Pleasantrie?"

"He isn't here, Captain," Seth muttered, rubbing at his head.

"Good!" She began sifting through a dead guard's weapons.

"Er…" said a voice. "If you don't mind…"

They looked over to see Gurny lifting his head and peering over the top of two ferrets that had been killed and somehow managed to fall on top of him.

"I could use a little help."

Seth groaned and, walking over, grabbed the body that still had arms, and hauled it off. The fox pushed the other one away with a grimace of distaste.

Steep stared at him and Seth saw surprise flickering over her face. "You didn't die?"

Gurny shuffled awkwardly. "Er… Was I supposed to, miss?"

Seth blinked. "Am I missing something?"

There was a muffled whimper behind him and he looked over at Keinruf. The kit was curled up into a tight little ball, one of the many-colored scarves pulled tightly over his eyes. Seth chewed on his lip. He had no idea what to do with the Captain, and he had even less of an idea as to what to do with the kit.

"Er… Keinruf." The kit didn't move. Seth searched his brain. What was it that Pip was always calling the thing? "Ruf… Ruffy!"

An ear twitched and a scared little face appeared, peering gingerly out at the two. Sighing, Seth sheathed his sword and, moving over to the trembling kit, scooped him up. Two little arms twined tightly around his neck, and a wet nose was buried in his chest.

"I'm... sorry, Lieutenant," Steep said awkwardly. She scratched the back of her neck, looking away as she spoke. "That was no way for me to behave. Nor should I have struck you. But we should get moving. Somebeast must have been attracted by all that noise..."

Seth straightened slowly as Steep moved down the corridor, stepping on bodies as if they weren't even there as she led the way. After about ten minutes of walking through various rooms and halls, they ended up back in the same corridor. Seth tried not to look at the dead stoat's head.

"Captain, do you know where we're going?"

"No. And do not speak unless absolutely necessary, Lieutenant."

Another ten minutes. Another circle. Seth looked around puzzled.

"For all the noise you'd think there'd be more beasts here."

Keinruf shifted in his grip and Seth looked out of a window cut into the wall. The sun's light was fading fast from the sky, streaks of darkness creeping up from the east, and here and there an occasional star glittered, as if in mockery of the creatures below them.

"Er..." said Gurny. "Again… not to bother anyone… but why are the pictures moving?"

Seth turned to look where the fox was pointing. On the wall, the pictures of the Imperial Emperor and all his descendants were rattling in their frames.

"Em..." said Seth, and then fell hard on his tail as the ground began shaking too.

"Take cover!" Steep shouted and slid underneath a table with a vase standing on it next to the wall. Seth braced himself across from her, his back pressed against the wall as he curled protectively around Keinruf who was now sobbing.

Gurny looked back and forth as the shaking got worse, and then, falling to all fours, began scrambling towards Steep's table.

Then, a pike from one of the suits of armor swung down and embedded itself in Gurny's head. He went limp without a sound.

Seth winced and then closed his eyes, waiting for the shaking to end.

Then, there was silence.

He peered up gingerly, carefully avoiding the sight of Gurny's body. Steep crawled out from under the table and looked around.

She muttered something when she saw the fox, and made a face.

"Something wrong Captain?"

"I told him... I told him, the bloody fool..."

"Told him what?"

"Don't have any pictures of Sadie on you, do you?"

Seth blinked. "No, why?"

"Good," was all she said.

Easing himself up while still holding onto Keinruf he turned back to the window he'd been looking out before.

He started as something smashed. Twisting, he saw Steep standing over the corpse of a Stotarian Guard, now strewn with broken bits of the vase that had somehow survived the fight and the earthquake. She looked at him innocently.

"I thought I saw him move."

"You're so thorough," Seth snapped.

He shifted Keinruf to a different position and motioned with his head.

"Let's try that hallway. We haven't been down there yet."

Without a word, Steep stomped past him and stormed down the new hallway.

"I must say, Captain, your powers of stealth are fascinating," Seth said sarcastically.

Steep sniffed. "I've had practice."

Seth snorted. "I wasn't being-"

A scream cut through the air behind them. Cursing, Steep grabbed Seth's arm and dragged him behind a curtain hanging by a huge picture window.

"Hush now. Don't even breathe..."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Seth muttered and then had a scarf stuffed into his mouth. Muffled and blinded by the heavy velvet drapes framing the thinner white silk hanging from the center of the rods, he could faintly hear the sound of running paw steps and more screaming as the bodies of the guards were discovered.

Keinruf shuddered in Seth's arms and tried to push his head through his father's chest.

"Clear!" Steep hissed, peeking out around the fabric. "Move out."

Breaking out through the drapes, they dashed to the end of the hall and turned a corner. The hall split, one way leading up a huge ornate staircase with marble steps and a gold railing, and the other way narrowing into a smaller, less grand hall.

They took the narrow hall, running past a ratmaid carrying an armful of sheets. She threw them up with a shriek when she saw the two adults and one very colorful kit bearing down on her. For a moment, everyone was draped in confining, white, cloth. Seth struggled and clawed his way free. Hampered by Keinruf who decided it was all a game and had wriggled down and was crawling around under them all. When he finally surfaced he saw the maid stumbling back, Steep's blade in her throat.

Seth spat out the scarf that Steep had stuffed in his mouth

"Captain! _Really_?" Seth protested, stomping down on the edges of the sheet and preventing Keinruf from coming out.

"Really!" Steep grinned manically.

"Not to complain or anything," Seth spat. "But couldn't you be a bit more… tasteful?"

Steep kicked a sheet over the dead maid. "Just don't step in the blood." She said. "It tracks paw-prints like you wouldn't believe."

"Thank you, Captain. I would never have guessed."

Steep smiled and then dashed along the hallway again. With a groan, Seth scooped up the kit, still wrapped up in the sheet and moved after her. Keinruf giggled and waved his paws, pretending to be a ghost.

"Where're we going?" Seth growled.

"I don't know!" Steep snapped. "Look for an exit, or someplace I can stop and think for a moment."

The hall turned into an even narrower passage with rows of doors on either side. Steep kicked one open and glanced in. Seth, peering in after her, saw a tiny room with a bed stacked against one wall and a narrow dresser on the other.

"Servants' quarters."

"I'm not daft, Lieutenant, I know what they are. Although," she added, "I'm surprised _you_ do... Or should I be?"

Seth glared at her. "I've known some very nice servants in my time!" he snapped. "Thank you very much!"

"And I bet they were all beautiful, female, and under seventeen."

"What do you care?"

"I don't."

"Then shut up!"

"Keep it down! And keep your trousers _up_, please."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of doing otherwise. Meanwhile why don't _you_ get us out of here!"

"Is that an order, Lieutenant? Are you trying to _order me_?"

"No, but I'm thinking about it!"

The pushed on, jumping each time they heard somebeast getting close. Finally, the weasel found an old wooden door and hauled it open. Rickety stairs led down into darkness below, and the smell of earth drifted up.

"Down here for now!"

She scurried down the stairs and found a lantern with a few scattered matches nearby. Seth carefully eased himself down the steps, pulling the door shut behind him as Steep struck a match. As she lit the lamp, Seth stepped down onto the floor, then with some effort, detached Keinruf and set him down.

"Where are we?" he looked around. Barrels and kegs lined the walls. Over them were shelves where more barrels and kegs were stacked.

"Wine cellar, looks like," Steep said. "Now, tell me again what happened."

Seth pushed Keinruf away as the kit tried to climb up his leg. "Lock's dead," he said.

Steep clutched her head. "I _know_ that part. What else, exactly?" She began to pace, her long skirt swirling around her legs. "What did Mr. Pleasantrie leave out with all those Guards around?"

Seth thought and sat down on a freestanding barrel. "I… I'm not sure exactly," he said finally. "There were lots of Imperial officers, and lots of our officers, and they were all talking about a weapon when Pip and I got there with Lady Ruston."

"Wheezin', two-bit, amputated, mud-snortin' filicidal, cod-loving..."

The marten gave her an irritated glance. "If you keep interrupting me, I can't finish."

Steep grunted as she walked into a barrel. Seth winced as two mugs clattered together on top of it. He craned his neck to peer at them. They were still half full of some kind of liquid. A couple dead flies floated companionably on the surface.

Seth cleared his throat. "As I was saying, we got there with Lady Ruston and they made everyone sit down, and then this weird chap arrived with Keinruf in tow, and then a fight started between the General and Lady Ruston."

"D'you need a drink?"

Seth blinked. "Er… no," he said as Steep picked up the mugs and tossed out their contents. He paused as she filled up one of the mugs and then shrugged. "Anyway, the General and Lady Ruston went at it, chasing each other out of the room, and Darcy dashed after them, and then a few minutes later a guard ran in and told us Lock was dead, and then that weasel chap sent Pip and I, and all the guards you killed back there, down to fetch you." He licked his lips and shuddered as the remembrance of the stoat with the kicked-in head surfaced. "I will have that drink."

"Just the one," Steep warned.

"Just the one."

***

Seth leaned back against a companionable-looking barrel. His head felt warm and fuzzy, and his limbs were deliciously heavy. Across the room he could see Alyssa's kit curled up on a nest of scarves, an old bottle of cordial lying next to him.

"M'real sorry, Sadie," he said, taking another swig from his mug. "Wasn't s'posed t'appen like that."

Next to him, Sadie nuzzled her head against his chest and hiccupped as she emptied her own drink and giggled.

"Missed you," she slurred. "'Laris not go 'way 'gain."

Seth grinned and kissed the top of her head. "An' jus' wanna tell you what 'appened," he managed, leaning his head against hers. "'Lyssa came down wif 'er da, an' we met atta ball."

Sadie cooed and snuggled closer, the mug dropping out of her paws as she snaked her arms around his neck.

Seth nuzzled her neck. "'N'way, there woz this bloke there, an' 'e woul'n't let 'er 'lone. So, I stepped in an' tol' 'im t' go 'way an' leave 'er 'lone. An' 'e got mad an' challenged me t' duel."

He giggled as Sadie stroked the fur on his chest, making it swirl with her claw. "Tickles."

She giggled back. "S'all sof' an' fuzzy' an' yellow," she managed. "Wot 'appen'd t'your tail? S'all patchy."

"Captain 'appened t'it," Seth mumbled. "Growin' back." He paused and took another swig of his drink.  
"S' we met an' dueled," he continued, waving his paw about grandly. "An' she woz there an' I won, only I got hurt an' she fel' bad. An' she tol' 'er da' 'bout it an' 'e want'd t' pay me, but I saiz no, an' then I showed 'er th' whole city. Whole city, see? 'Nywhere she want'd go. Only we met up wif th' one bloke 'gain an' 'e tried t' get 'er 'way from me, an' turned out 'e'd been paid t' kidnap 'er fer some other bloke an' I killt 'im. Then one thin' led t' another an' she sed she love' me an' she wan'd me t' go wif 'er back t' th' Imper'um."

A mournful look crossed his face, and he stroked Sadie's head gently, playing with her ears. "I sed mebbe, an' we was s'posed t' meet, an' go 'way only 'er da foun' out 'bout it an' took 'er way an' 'fore I knew it, she was gone. An' I didn' know 'nuffin 'bout Keinruf 'til she sen' 'im t' me. M'sorry Sadie."

Sadie gave a little sigh and a snore. Seth felt his eyes filling up with tears. "Sorry Sadie," he slurred again. "Love you. 'Adn't met you atta time. Sorr' Sadie."

The soft, fuzzy feeling in his head was getting heavier, pressing down on him. He moved away from the barrel and stretched out on the ground, Sadie nuzzling him and curling up beside him with her head on his chest, drooling a little. He reached down and tilted her head up to give her a kiss. She returned it and then snuggled her head against him and fell asleep again.

Seth smiled and let his head fall back against the floor. "Sorr' Sadie," he mumbled again as darkness closed in.

***

His head was killing him. And he just _knew _ that if he opened his eyes, _someone_, probably Mother, was going to throw open the curtains and let the sun flood in. And _that_ would hurt.

He felt Sadie move beside him, and he wrapped his arm tighter around her waist.

"Bestill," he murmured, nuzzling her neck. "'S stillnight."

She moved again and then pushed his arm away. He muttered and rolled over.

"Aaaaaaauuuugh..."

There was cold, empty air, frozen by an eerie silence. He yawned and opened his eyes.

"Sadie what's wro - Agh! What th-!"

He looked down at himself. His shirt was gone. Oh, Fates in Dark Forest please, no. Not this. Why was only one of his eyes working?

He reached up and felt something wrapped around his head. Steep reached over and snatched it off. Her eye-patch dangled from her paw for a moment before she hauled it back over her own head.

Seth stared at her in horror. She was fully dressed, but dirty from sleeping on the cellar floor.

"How…" Seth stopped and quickly looked down again. He still had half his uniform on – the important half.

The marten breathed a little and then looked up to see Steep staring at him, and Pip a little ways a way staring at both of them, and Keinruf sitting on the floor beside Pip grinning at all of them.

"Mifthver Pleafthanvrie," Steep said quietly, and paused. She stuck her tongue out, crossing her eyes at it. She licked the sleeve of her uniform, and Seth could see it left a dark mark. She spat to the side. "Would you agree that it'th time for a promothion, Mr. Pleaf—santrie?"

Pip's beak half-opened as he focused on the weasel. "... Yes... ma'am?" He sounded cautious and uncertain.

Steep nodded. "I'll talk to Fth—Scott about it... if you keep quiet. And _you_!" She spun and pointed at Seth. "Keep quiet ath well. And _you_!" She pointed at Keinruf, her paw wavering. "You... never learn to talk. Ever. _Arrrgh_!"

Pip shrugged and went back to roosting. "Yes, Captain. Don't talk to Scott. Not like you have to tell me twice. He's always drooling when I'm around."

There was another awkward silence, then Steep shook herself and glared at Pip.

"Mr. Plea_s_antrie, report! And I need not remind you that it wath extremely th—slack of you not to do tho—_so_—last night!"

Pip gave a squawk as he nearly leaped from his feathers. Somehow a wing came up for a sloppy salute. "I - couldn't wake you! Sorry, Captain, that is- here's what I found out..."

Seth felt the horrified expression on his face go grim as the words Pip had to say spilled out into the quiet air of the cellar. When he was finished, Steep stared at him for a long moment, and then threw Seth's shirt at the marten.

"Lieutenant, get dressed immediately! Mr. Pleasantrie, scout outside for any enemies. I want us out of here and back with our army in five seconds!"

Seth scrambled to his feet, hauling his shirt over his head, and winced as his ribs creaked. Sleeping on a cellar floor had not been the best idea he'd ever had. His face itched. He reached up to scratch it and froze as his claws found the nasty gash Gloria had given him. He gritted his teeth as he strapped his sword on.

_Dear Sadie,_

_I love you._

_Seth_

"Ready for action, Captain," he said, saluting.


	73. Living is Easy With Eyes Closed

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 72. Living is Easy With Eyes Closed  
**

_by Gloria  
_

_'Regi,_

Where in Voss' name are you? Why aren't you and Jelliko at Amarone, yet? I ken you've routed out the Southern swill-drinkers. Why aren't you here? Something's happened, Regi. Lord Baltsar is a traitor. I can't say any more in a 'Tross, but it's all gone terribly wrong. Something's happen**ing**, and I don't know what to do. Wazzock's trying to help, but... I think this might be bigger than Lord Baltsar and Lock. Much bigger. Where are you, Regi? The Imperium We ne **I** need you.

-Gloria'

--- --- ---

Morning arrived. The beasts who had taken shifts guarding the door reported no changes besides Major Darcy taking the sheet off his head to cover Lock more thoroughly. They had thrown another on the rat, and he'd thanked them for the assistance, but really, he could tend to the General's needs, and they had best be about their other duties. At some point, the Major had dozed off, and the sound of snoring indicated that he was still blissfully ignorant of his superior's demise.

As they were kicking the bedding out of the way and picking at breakfast, Gloria glanced up toward the ceiling when she noted rays of red, orange, and blue painting her white fur. Four thin beams of light shot through the high windows and crashed into a crystal chandelier that refracted rainbows throughout the ballroom. The stoat couldn't help pausing a moment to admire the way the room had been designed. The colors brought to mind the beads she'd used in her dioramas of the Harbour as a kit. She'd never quite managed a perfect one with all the right scales and landmarks, but Da' hadn't gotten the chance to destroy her most recent attempt... Maybe he would have approved this time.

"Reminds me of the sea after a storm," Wazzock said. She started, finding him directly beside her, two cups of cold tea in his paws. He passed her one, and she took a drink. "Like all the different types of jellyfish decided to rise up and have a bit of a dance in the waves. Do you suppose jellyfish have dances? All those legs... And do they have bad dancers? I mean, how would you get out of a dance if you were a jellyfish and a bad dancer? 'Sorry, miss, but I have ten left tentacles.'? Then she'd have to ask if maybe a chap didn't have at _least_ one right-"

"Wazzy?" Gloria cut him off, as she squinted at the glistening crystals.

"Yes, Ms. Gloria?"

"Shut up. The sea after a storm was a fine place t'leave it."

"Ah. Perhaps you're right. I do tend to ramble, but so many questions in the world left unanswered, wouldn't you say? Important questions..." He trailed off. Then, he added quietly, "Too important to pretend away."

"Now, then, Captains!" Before she could puzzle over this suddenly-serious turn, Voss caught their attention by clapping his paws together. "I believe we've all had time to rest and recharge. So, ideas that came over night?"

"We gang up on Cork 'ere and throw 'im in a'ead," suggested a dogfox, one of the rescued Guards, pointing at a gaping ferret.

"W-what!" Cork stammered. "If it's any beast we should toss in, it's Soulhound! He don't even keep his Guard Armor polished proper, Cap'n Ruston! An'-an' he's bigger, so he'll set off more traps! An'-"

"That's enough," Gloria snapped, and the two beasts fell silent. "There's no need t'go throwing our own beasties t'the hazard."

"Oh?" Voss asked. "So you've decided you'd like to ask the Southerners for help, Captain?"

"Never, Yer Grace!" Realizing she had just shouted at the Emperor... again, the Captain of the Guard gave herself a mental slap and continued more evenly. "I mean t'say, Yer Grace, that Cap'n Pike and I came up with a better solution."

"Do tell."

"We'll capture a Southie or two and force 'em t'work for us."

"Ain't that... almost the same thing?" Cork asked.

"No! We'll not be cooperating with a bunch of slime-sucking, tobacco-chewing, mange-infested, foreign fops! We'll be _using_ 'em."

"Still seems like a diff'rent way about the same – Yeowch!" the ferret went silent, hopping on one footpaw and grasping the other well-stomped one between his paws and licking it. Gloria straightened again and directed her gaze at the Emperor.

"Is that acceptable, Yer Grace?"

"Sounds simply delightful," the fox concurred. "Do be quick about this capturing business, though. I get bored waiting."

"Perhaps I could be of some help in that respect, sir," Wazzock said. He produced three apples from his coat and began to juggle them.

"How did ye fit..." Gloria's brows knit together in confusion, but she stopped herself from finishing the question. She had come to realize that Wazzock's coat was possessed of the mysterious power known as Fish Space.* It was better not to ask.

"Ah! Very good. Very good." Voss clapped his paws, watching the apples soar through the air. "Get on with it then, Captain Ruston. We'll be waiting."

"Wazzy," the stoat growled low, "what're ye up to? Ye don't even like the Emperor."

"I like him as well as I like a wasp, Ms. Gloria," the rat murmured in reply. "Nice to see up close; intriguing to see knocking against a window to get outside; and something I'd rather keep my eye on when it's been buzzing against a window all night... Especially if said wasp twitches his antennae in a certain way."

Gloria stared at Wazzock and he stared right back, never breaking his juggling pattern. He whispered, "You said you trusted me."

"I trust His Grace, too."

"Who do you trust more?"

She considered him, then glanced at the greatest beast in the Imperium. The Emperor was still wholly engrossed in watching Wazzock's simple trick, but inside the fox's coat, she could see the outline of Lock's file – the file he wouldn't let them read. "...Don't ye dare try anything while I'm gone, Wazzy."

"I wouldn't dream of stirring the hive alone, Ms. Gloria. That's a _very_ good way to get stung."

--- --- ---

Gloria picked Cork and Soulhound to lead the way through the secret passages. Having been unaware of their existence – and firmly in denial of said existence – the stoat thought it prudent to have palace-natives guiding her. They carried on through irregular patches of light cast from rooms beyond the frigid, thin corridor. Occasionally, Gloria caught a few words from whispered conversations between the hidden nobles at Amarone. They gossiped about the dangers of the corridors – where bodies and blood made up the latest decorative motif – Lord Baltsar's betrayal, the earthquake, the so-far-successful defense of the front gates from Southern entry, and the mysterious weapon that the South was after.

_Ugh. This is who we're fighting t'protect?_ the stoat wondered as she heard a snippet about her complete and utter failure to defend Bully Harbour. _No. The real fight's for the Imperium._ And _that_ was worth protecting.

One staircase and three turns later, the trio surreptitiously pushed open a well-oiled door and peaked out from behind a tapestry. The coast was clear. They hurried out and Gloria marked the tapestry in her memory – a velvety maroon with golden leaves falling to a white lake.

They proceeded down the corridor and Gloria noted the pictures, vases, and other décor littering the ground. The earthquake had touched much more than the basement ballroom. They continued padding along for another several minutes, turning down progressively smaller hallways when the stoat's ear twitched and she put up her paw to call a silent halt.

_Click clack. Click clack. Click click click clack click. Rustle._

_Urie?_ The captain signaled for the others to hide behind a pillar on one side of the corridor while she took the pillar on the other. If it was Urie, Cork was in trouble, and by association, herself and Soulhound. But it couldn't be Urie. The great brute walked on all fours, a lumbering gait to accompany his behemoth frame. These steps were light, quick. But who else did she know of with claws that massive that walked about with bare footpaws?

_"Cabin Bird First Class Pleasantrie of the Southern Navy!" the little plover announced. His leg twitched up and down making a soft click each time his talons met the basement floor. Light taps, swift as the flick of a herring's tail._

Gloria grinned and signaled for the others to press back as far as they could, the clicks growing louder. Losing her command of the land forces to Wazzock had thrown her life into a spiral of confusion, stress, broken trust, and doubt, but here... here was something she knew what to do with. Like Major Darcy and breaking into the ballroom, this was what she _did_.

_Click clack. Click clack._ Pleasantrie hopped into view, staring ahead. He looked much the same as Gloria remembered him, save for a set of Missertross Gull goggles hanging about his neck. The plover stopped just a few paces beyond the pillars and began looking around at the askew pictures.

The captain signaled once more and three sets of boots slammed against the marble floor. Pleasantrie began to turn with a squawk of dismay, his wings fanning out, but he never managed to make it off the ground. Gloria tackled him, grunting as her own wounded shoulder bounced against the marble. The bird screeched and beat at her with his wings, trying to peck her at the same time, but by then, Cork and Soulhound had made it over and were grabbing at his head.

Soulhound locked the plover's head in place with his brawny arms while Cork used his bandanna to muzzle the bird. Gloria got his wings under control and sat on him. He finally went limp save for one leg, which continued to twitch irregularly.

"Well, now, Mr. Pleasantrie." Even the leg stopped as the plover went rigid beneath her. His wide eyes began to water as he turned them back to look at her.

Horror. Pure, unadulterated horror. It didn't just flit across the bird's face. It sauntered in, set up a tent, built a little shop, and began selling Non-fish Fish Sticks.

_Oh... that feels s'good._ That look – she had so missed that look.

"Terrible sorry we didn't get t'chat more during dinner last night," she continued, delight dripping like honey from every word. "But traitors and fire and all that, eh? Should we make up for that? But first, I wonder... have ye kept the pretty marks I gave ye?" He whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to draw himself into a compact, feathery ball.

"Don't be s'shy, Mr. Pleasantrie." The stoat licked her lips and shifted a little, prying up one wing to feel the whip-shaped brand she'd given him what seemed like years ago – so much time since she'd last indulged.

"Er... Cap'n?" Soulhound interrupted. "I think we... shouldn't we get back t'the others? Emperor's waitin'"

_Wazzy._ The rat's face intruded into her pleasure... and then everything else. The file, the weapon, Lord Baltsar, Regi, the Emperor. This wasn't the time or place... unfortunately.

"Ye've been s'terrible rude Mr. Pleasantrie," she informed the plover. "Leading Southies int' m'mansion, then int' m'emperor's castle. But ye have a chance t'redeem yerself, birdy." She couldn't resist leaning in and stroking his cheek with her hook. He flinched away, and she leered. "Such a chance t'help us."

--- --- ---

_'Gloria,_

Hold fast. Trust nobeast. MAUL agents let slip some Interesting Intelligence. I'm on my way.

-Regi

P.S. Don't you dare die.'

--- --- ---

* Fish Space _n._ – The place to which left pawsocks, lost keys, the 1/3 measuring cup, and all other manner of sundries disappear. Some articles of clothing and packs have the ability to contain and access this space, but they are few and far between. More often than not, such articles and packs are to be found in the Ministry of Innovations undergoing testing.


	74. Suddenly I Remembered My Charlemagne

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 73. Suddenly I Remembered My Charlemagne  
**

_by Pip  
_

Gloria had had some fun with Pip before she tossed him into the vault door and placed a trio of spearbeasts at the entrance.

The bird lay on a wide platform, his chest heaving as he tried to get his bearings and ignore the dull stinging in his sides.

_Okay... thrown in a trap-filled room. Entrance is guarded. Insane wench past_ them. And a large force of Imperium soldiers past her.... Seems like a normal day, so far.

Pip stood, slowly testing each limb. Since nothing seemed broken, he paused and looked about at the chamber.

He was at one end of a wide corridor. The ceiling was almost as tall as the ballroom behind him – at least he guessed as much, since the only light was what was spilling in from said ballroom. The floor past the platform was flooded, turning the entire room into a shallow pool, except for another platform across the water that had the door out. A dull reflection shone from the end of his platform.

Pip moved over to it, trying to ignore the sniggers that came from the doorway.

"Heh heh! Did you _hear_ the screams from the last one?"

"Bones crunching, too."

Pip used a wing to brush the dust off of the plaque. Figured in the bronze was an embossed fish. It was a horrid thing, more teeth than scales, by the look of it.

_Graycheeked Kneenibbler_

The Graycheeked Kneenibbler, the official fish of Kreehold Isle, is a voracious predator. Often known to attack its own to spite its kidneys, this beast is prized by mad dictators and torturers the world over. Their bile is said to have medicinal properties, not only for its acid-like potency*, but also because of the large amounts of oil therein – used to aid digestion.

*Because so many things just need_ to be removed._

Pip glanced at the still pool, then back at the sniggering guards. _Maybe most of them died off. Not a lot to eat down here, and a couple of hapless beasts could hold the rest off for a while._

The plover stretched his wings once, groaning as he eased the stiffness out of them with every beat. He raised one wing, testing the air – still as you'd expect a cave to be. He gave a small grunt as he took off, skimming just over the surface of the pool.

He alighted on the far side and began casting about for another plaque – hopefully one that was slightly more helpful than a snippet describing his imminent death. Instead, he found stone and a door. He pecked the portal. _Yup, it's a door._ It was a good one, at least. Certainly looked sturdy enough. It had a strange keyhole, however: it was set in the center and looked like it was still in good condition after all this time. And there was...

Pip leaned in. Above the keyhole was scratched into the wood, in a shaky script: _The dirty mongrel put the key in the mid~~~_.

The bird glanced over his shoulder at the pool. It seemed to stare back and even gave a slight gloop at him.

Pip took off once again and flew near the surface. He gave a short dive and let the tips of one wing brush the surface of the water, then pulled up.

In an instant, the surface of the water erupted into a roiling melee of shining scales and foam. Pip flew in short circles, watching with a detached horror as the fish tore into each other, two or three falling prey to their brethren before an easy truce fell over the water. A single eye survived the battle and floated on the surface, regarding him with a milky disdain.

_Gloop!_ A member of the ever-pragmatic horde devoured it.

Pip continued flying above the surface, a growing sense of dread overcoming the bird. _Think! Key in the middle... key in the middle..._

Something caught the bird's eye, and he squinted harder at the gloomy depth. _That is..._ The water along the middle of the room was lighter than the rest, as if it were shallower there.

_In the middle... there!_ From above, Pip could see a small shape just under the surface of the water. The bird went back almost to the entrance and wheeled around, sucking in a deep breath. _All right, Pip. It's just like getting an unwitting eel. A little dip..._

Eyes squeezed half-shut, the bird snapped his wings back and went into a short dive. His beak broke the water for less than a heartbeat and he snapped up the short metal rod. He choked back first a cry of horror when a fish bounced off of his beak, then a second cry of triumph when he came out of the dive unscathed.

Pip landed on the opposite shore and dropped the key. He did a victory dance – a squawking, flapping shuffle of successful death avoidance that looked a bit like fighting an imaginary snake while attempting a folk cure for the hiccups.

Then followed a long few moments where he tried to figure out how to actually get the key _into the hole_ when he lacked paws. Much swearing, flapping, and fancy beak-work got the tool in. Double the effort finally turned it.

The plover dropped to a feathered mass, shivering. The room gave a yawning leap, then a low rumble began to reverberate through the entire floor. Pip, as well as a crowd of Imperium soldiers that gathered on the other side of the room, watched as a few feet of pool drained, leaving the raised pathway clear of the dangers of the water.

Captain Ruston walked along the path, showing a toothy grin. "Well, Mr. Pleasantrie, it looks like the Imperium was wise t'put faith in ye."

Pip spat as he rose to his feet. "I swear... next time I'll figure out a way to lower the path with you still on it."

Still muttering, Pip opened the door to the next room, keeping ahead of the pikes of the palace guards. As he opened the door, a small spring triggered and the bird heard flint strike tinder.

The room was, well... not a room. It demanded at least the reverence that the word "chamber" implied. It was a temple to opulence – and closer to a cathedral in scale. The walls were painted with a mural so stunning that you wouldn't have believed you were underground. The flint from earlier lit a massive candelabra of brass that would have made a Rococo architect weep at the ornate-to-the-point-of-tacky scrollwork that dominated it. Large armchairs were scattered about the room next to mahogany tables.

All of that was lost on the plover, however, for the room was dominated by a single item. On a pedestal directly beneath the chandelier was a large scale. It was, obviously, made of gold so fine that even the cheapest pawnbroker would feel bad for smelting it. On it were a myriad of tiny weights of various sizes. Another of the conspicuous bronze plaques lay on the floor in front of it.

Pip moved over and read it. _Well, you do know what scales are for, don't you?_

Pip eyed the contraption. _There has to be more to it than that..._

The bird lifted one of the gold weights with a claw – one of the weights from the left side.

There was a grinding up above him. Pip winced. It only lasted a moment, though, and he glanced up. _Is the... the chandelier's closer?_ Pip replaced the weight, and kept his eyes on the ceiling. As he let go, the chandelier rose again. He then lifted one of the weights from the opposite side. The chandelier moved down toward him, as well.

_Hmm... it's not_ really_ about balance then, is it?_ He glanced over the weights, silently muttering to himself. _... Odd. They don't look like they would balance out, ever._

The bird moved to one wall and walked around the room, poking at the mural absently. "Think like a vermin, Pip. That's who made this place. If I were a vermin, what would I do?"

He looked back at the balance. "Nick the whole thing and take it down to Gilderless Alley, that's what."

He stopped and blinked once, hard. _That's it. Zero is balanced, right?_

He looked up at the ceiling, then back at the scales. _All right... but I've gotta be fast..._

The bird hopped up to the scales and stood on one side. The chandelier slid all the way to the ceiling. Gears groaned at the added weight. Pip then took a claw and swept off one side's worth. More groans from the ceiling. Grimacing, Pip braced himself. The sounds stopped, however. The bird gulped, shifted his weight, and swept off the remaining weights with his beak.

He leapt into a low dive, skimming above the floor.

He could feel the rush of air as the fixture began to drop.

He screeched and squeezed his eyes shut.

The sound of screaming metal and shattering glass was visceral. It was as if the soul of every working beast that had slaved over the monstrosity of commerce was screaming out at the indignity their life's work was suffering at the claws of a mere bird – with a single whimper of a beautiful, smashed scale that couldn't make it very _Fa_.

Pip opened his eyes just enough to see a large, smiling badger. The plover veered into a controlled crash, rolling into another pile of feathers at the foot of the mural. He lay for a moment, panting.

"Mr. Pleasantrie." Gloria leaned over the bird, the smile from before even brighter. "Again, ye amaze and dazzle. Still, I ken ye'll be wanting t'avoid Whipcrack the Terrible next time. As awful as he was in real life, it's fair fine t'assume he's just as unpleasant t'run int', now."

"Dirty, nasty..." The bird rolled onto his claws and stood, spreading his wings to give him balance. "I don't suppose you'd like to get the key and turn it, this time?"

"But ye make stuggle look s'fine, birdy... I'd take ye for an exhibit in m'husband's museum if ye weren't slated as the entree for dinner t'night." She glanced over at Voss, just entering the room, and sobered. "But yer right. No time t'be wasting, Mr. Pleasantrie." The stoat moved to the wreckage and poked at the central support of the fixture. The impact had cracked it. Gloria pushed her hook into the crack and yanked hard. Muscles bunched beneath her uniform, and between the sharp hook and her own strength, the crack widened. Within was second the key. Gloria moved to the door inserted it, turned, and opened the way to the next room. She removed the key and tossed it to the bird with a smirk. "A souvenir."

The bird caught it and slipped it into his message tube, pulling a face at the officer. He moved ahead of her into the third room and groaned. This one was barely an antechamber and was, perhaps, the most painful of all.

A door. A table. A plaque. An object.

Pip let his shoulders go limp. _Something this simple has just got to be horrid._ He moved to the plaque and read it:

_A_ rite_ of passage that we make each year.  
A_ nest_ where we can hold what we hold most dear.  
A rosy _tint_ on what we used to think was weak.  
What once was _sere – with my touch – can again, the sun seek.

Pip shifted his attention to the object which surpassed all of the previous room's glitz in its beauty. It was a simple cylinder of metal. _Metals_, to be precise. It was attached to a small stone box, which presumably held this door's key. On the cylinder were rows of letters –

_As if it were a combination lock!_ Pip marveled at the device and gently spun the tumblers, hearing them click with each passing letter.

"Well," Pip said aloud, moving back to the plaque. "Guessing won't open that one."

"Let's see... something that can be done each year. Nameday? No. Seven... Holiday is the same. Holidays?"

_Clickity._ Pip gave a futile tug.

"Twisters! Hmm... A nest. A yearly nest. So someplace safe. And someplace where something new can grow and seek the sun. Forest and garden are too small. So is lagoon. How about a tidepool?"

_Snicker-click._ Still no budging on the part of the lock.

"Why do these so-called geniuses have to use so many horrid, taunting puzzles? We get it, you're smarter than --"

"Having troubles, dear?" Gloria's voice drifted in from the safety – and comfort – of the previous room.

"Go drink hemlock!" Pip forced his reply to sound cheerful, even as he called out through a gritted beak.

_All right, Pleasantrie, stop being so direct. It's like with any battle plan – get all your information first. They've highlighted those words for you... lay them out: rite, nest, tint, sere. Hmm... all four-letter words. With eight slots, that's bound to matter. Maybe some combination of the two of them?_

The bird spent the next few minutes testing that theory, with little success.

He went back to speaking aloud. "All right, what else? 'With my touch' is kind of highlighted, too, but that's probably the author trying to be clever. Ha ha, sir, I _am_ having to solve this with touch. Maybe... length of lines? Words: nine, eleven, eleven twelve. That doesn't help. Sounds, maybe? Let's see..." Pip counted out on his primaries. "Ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen! Hey, it went up by one each time!"

The bird sat back on his haunches, his eyes crossed as he contemplated all of the information. _So... eight letters: R-E-S-T-I-N-T-E. And two sets of those letters. If we go by the lines, it grows by one sound each line. Or maybe not by one, but by..._

Pip groaned and buried his head in a wing. He moved over to the contraption and entered a word. The lid snapped open and he was greeted by the key and a small note engraved on the lid: _Thank you for showing one._

"Oh, very droll, room." Pip shut the lid and moved to the door.

The word: Interest.

This key was smaller, and Pip was able to get it into the door without a problem. As the door opened with a click, the bird added the key to his collection.

The next room _reeked_.

Pip could hear the rustling on the ceiling. It sounded like the movement of dozens of living things moving slightly – almost like leaves in the breeze, but purposeful.

_All right... not gonna fly this time. Fates know what those things are, in this cave of wonders._

The bird made his way into the room and had almost taken another step when he felt a claw on his shoulder.

"I wouldn't be doing that, sir."

Pip nearly choked. "Wazzock? How do you _do_ that?"

The rat waved a paw to dismiss the spluttering bird's question. "Swabbing during a storm teaches one good paw control, Mr. Maplefeathers. Or Pleasantrie. Or Pip... what have you. Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that. I've known plenty of good beasts who weren't sure who they were one day to the next. Like Mr. Quinn. He was a little uptight, to be sure, but I think that he -- wait, was that Quinn? Jericho might've been, but I thought he was the assertive one. Well, either way, they were strange fellows. Quite moody, I recall, but I can't remember why. Female trouble, most likely, 'specially that Quinn."

As per usual, Pip merely blinked at the rat's statement. "Hwa?"

"I think you're about to step on a pressure plate. And, if you'll allow me a small pun, you don't sit too well on plates."

Pip groaned. Wazzock giggled.

"Anyway, my feathered friend, your avian antics, while impressive in and of themselves, won't be of much assistance in this case. Perhaps, if you'll allow me..."


	75. Why Did It Have To Be Bats?

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 74. Why Did it Have to be Bats?  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

_To my loyal crew:_

Sorry for the long delay in new orders, chaps. Seems like seasons since I gave the old ones, though I hope you followed them well. It appears that many unexpected conflicts have tumbled upon the Imperium and the beasts within her borders. Perhaps they are expected, since war is the epitome of the unexpected.

I am sorry to say, many of your crewmates have been lost in these conflicts. I would say more, but I do not believe there is enough paper available to do them justice. We shall have the proper ceremonies and feasts after this is all over. All we can do now is hope that Dark Forest is treating them well, with as much fresh tea as they could ever wish to have.

There is much to say, and not enough time to say it. In short, the Emperor is a jerk and we're off to find a secret weapon that may very well bring down life as we know it.

I assume it involves fish…

Wazzock considered the layout of the room. He paced along the border, between where the sandstone ended and the granite tiles began. He looked up. The ceiling rustled and shimmered with glowing eyes. He knew what the place represented, yet he didn't know what it meant. Though, that wasn't the only puzzle on his mind.

He glanced back at Voss, the esteemed vulpine, flipping through that file once again, a cockeyed smirk occasionally dancing across the edges of his maw. The more time spent with Voss, the more Wazzock found that there was not much to like about the chap. With most, he could see a flicker of something nice on the edges of the even the grimiest beast. Perhaps the problem was that Voss was that he was the least grimy beast Wazzock had ever encountered, hence, his insides, in comparison, were the consistency of a pitch placed on a ship's hull.

The rat chided himself. Somebeast would have noticed by now if the fox were up to something. The Emperor was the most recognized figure in the Vulpine Imperium...

_And more mysterious than the masked fiend from over the Western Sea, rumored to raid rubbish bins in the North,_ he countered.

"There's a solution to this," Wazzock stated, pointing his club across the floor.

"Well, praise be t'the Fates! We've a master of all things obvious, eh, Wazzy? How about ye tell us that it's dark, or there're some wee beasties hanging on the ceiling, or look, yer a rat!"

"You'd be surprised how often I've been mistook for a vole. Was during last winter; my fur became exceptionally… puffy."

"Get on with it, Captain Pike. I should think time is a matter of some importance now that we're on our way."

"I believe we can already see that this obsession with time has caused our numbers to fall faster than plovers during the Annual Imperium Naval Beach Roast. No offense, Mr. Pip."

"None taken."

"Are you reprimanding me?" Voss demanded, narrowing is eyes.

Wazzock noted the Meaningful Look Gloria wore.

"Of course not, Emperor, I would never dream of contradicting such an indubitably dashing and bombastically plumbeus Vulpes vulpes."

Switch, notably, made a sound not completely unlike a snicker.

"But as I was saying, there is a solution to this puzzle. It appears there is a path through these tiles. I noticed that there was a slight pattern upon the tiles. As you can see, there is a somewhat lighter shade of gray tiles that leads from here to the key, then to the other side of the room. Now, considering that this looks like a layout of the Vupinsula, this might translate as a path from Bully Harbour to the palace…"

"Seems to work."

Wazzock stopped his explanation. He cautiously turned around to see the dim, lanky figure of a ferret carefully stepping from gray tile to gray tile.

"Mr. Cork?"

"I think you figured out the trick, Cap'n Wazzock. Just tricky t'balance out."

"Please come back here, Mr. Cork."

Cork ignored him, going further into the room, hopping from tile to tile.

"What's wrong, Wazzy?" Gloria hissed. "Yer tail's twitching a storm behind ye. Mr. Cork looks fine."

Wazzock pulled at a whisker, not taking his eyes off the ferret as he neared the key. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I'm just over-thinking the solution. I bet that…"

A hollow click. Suddenly, all the torches dimmed significantly. The rustling shadows above exploded into a flurry of wing beats, as if thousands of thick flags were flapping in a storm breeze. Downward they rushed towards the center of the room, directly at Cork.

Over the wings, a scream could be heard. It did not end right away. It grew louder, more strained, and through the swarm of shadows, a fleeting flicker of the ferret could be seen, flailing his arms, trying to come back. All the beasts of the group took a collective step backward. The scream gurgled, then stopped. Cork's body collapsed as a dozen fuzzy forms fell upon him, jaws flashing in the dim light.

Slowly, the lights came up, and slower still, the forms left Cork's corpse. Wazzock started to see the strange details. Creatures with wings not made of feathers, but of skin, extending from a furry body, large ears waggling out above beady eyes, a flattened nose, and sharp-fanged maw.

"What matter of winged demon are those?" Pip wondered, a frightened chirp at the edge of his question.

Soon, only one creature remained, and its case, it gazed across the group, settling upon Wazzock and Switch.

"Brethren, Brethren," it began, in a hollow bass, "you come to disturb our rest, our rest."

"Aenean vitae tellus risus, vitae volutpat nisle!" Switch shook his head vehemently. "Vivamus dui sapien, viverra eu consequat sit amet, consequat id ipsum."

"You speak a lost tongue, tongue," the creature said, "I wonder if it affects the taste of your blood, your blood."

Switch scampered behind Wazzock and whimpered. Wazzock had the sense that Switch wasn't the only creature who wanted to do so, seeing this creature's jaws dripping with Cork's blood.

"My name is Captain Wazzock. Who and what are you?"

"We are nameless, for we are one, are one. All we seek is the finer things of life, of life. In particular, the life that flows under all of your hides, your hides."

Only now did Wazzock notice the odd lack of blood seeping from Cork's wounds.

"That's a little… Well… I'll just be honest. That makes my stomach a little queasy. I bit the inside of my cheek once before and that did not produce a very pleasant taste. It was a right problem getting a bandage on the wound. Have you ever considered tea?"

Gloria jabbed Wazzock.

"Does it carry the flavor of life essence, of suffering, of pain, of joy, of happiness, of hate, intoxicating the senses until life is a dim memory to the taste, the taste?"

"If you add a few scoops of sugar, perhaps."

"We are not interested in your offer, your offer. We shall wait for your inevitable failure so that we may feed upon your blood, blood."

With that, the bat flapped away, up to the rustling shadows.

"Does beg the question: Why they don't kill us now?" Wazzock pondered.

"That's not a question we need t'be worrying over," Gloria snapped. "Just tell us how t'get t'that key and the other side."

"Ah, well. The gray tiles, obviously, were a false trail. What I noticed is that there are very shallow pits all around the floor, and they have a very distinct smell, the sort that would make me upchuck if I possessed the proper reflexes. I shall tell you about that drinking contest later. In any case, could I borrow a torch, please?"

Wazzock took the torch, walked over to the edge of the tiles, then touched it to the ground. There was a hiss, then suddenly, a flame. The fire spread, but not directly across the floor. Rather, it snaked along certain paths, across intersections, and around corners and curves. Before long, the blaze had cut a detailed landscape all across the floor. Instead of a rough shape of the Vupinsula, an extensive map of fire lay before them, showing all major features of the Imperium. And in the middle of it all, a path lie, wending its sinuous way across the room, under the key.

"Didn't quite expect such detail. Look, there's a little note on the sea that says "Here There Be Toothaches. Brilliant penbeastship, I must say," Wazzock noted. "So, all we have to do is stay on the path, grab the key, and get the rest of the way across."

"Simple as that?" Gloria ventured.

"Simple as that."

"It's never as simple as that."

"I know, but without those little unexpected details, life would be rather boring."

"Do you think they like bird-blood?" Pip asked. "I'm really not in excess of blood and I've been told bird-blood is quite gamey. And I'm not as fresh and hot-blooded as some of you younger beasts."

"Shut yer beak, Mr. Pleasantrie."

"I believe Pip brings up an interesting topic. If we had a needle…"

"And shut yers, too, Wazzy."

"I don't have a beak, though."

"Let's just get t'that blasted key."

So, Pip at the lead, Gloria prodding him on, the Emperor at her tail, and Wazzock taking the rear – and the others bidding them a fine death from the safety of their position _not_ on the tiles – they shuffled down the narrow path outlined in the flames, until they stood under the key. Gloria drew in a deep breath, then took the key down. The torches flickered. Wazzock looked down. The outline began to dim.

"I hate to put a rush on this, but I believe the simplicity of the situation… I mean… Please shuffle very fast, if you will."

The fire dimmed further. The rustling above grew louder.

"I can't see the path!" Pip called.

"Then move yer tailfeathers, now!"

Everybeast broke into a run towards the supposed exit as the room fell into pitch black. All the world filled with rustling. They made it to the door. A scuffle.

"It won't open!"

"Use the key!"

"They're nipping at me!"

"GET THE BLASTED DOOR OPEN!"

"YOU HAVE THE KEY!"

"YE…"

A click, and suddenly, a flash, as a wall of fire whooshed overhead, the heat knocking them down, and the bats away. The smell of smoked fur and pained screeches came as they scampered through the door and slammed it shut. They sat on the ground, huffing for air.

"Obviously, there was a secondary part to that challenge: To keep one's head above…"

"I'll take whatever maxim yer about t'say and find a way t'kill ye with it, Wazzy."

Wazzock closed his mouth.

"How many of these are there?" Pip groaned. "I'm running out of ways to narrowly avoid death."

"All the better for the victory feast," Voss said, before taking the file out of his coat. "Appears to be only one more mentioned in here before the weapon. Then, all my problems will be over."

"The Imperium's problems."

"Come again?"

"The Imperium's problems. The war. All the beasts out there, fighting to the death."

"Wazzy..." Gloria cut in with an edge.

"Never mind. What's the next challenge? Oh." Wazzock saw the contraption looming over them. Gears, metal, springs, and belts spread across a device that appeared like a grandfather clock had eaten a MinoInn experiment, then gotten sick on the carpet – a very plush carpet, Wazzock noted from the thick ruby material on which the contraption sat.

"Very extensive design. It appears that we might have to figure the right way to pull those levers until… Rusty? What are you doing?"

"Doing what I should've done four challenges ago," she snapped, tapping her hook against the device… before letting out a violent rain of kicks that rattled through the frame.

But instead of a series of blades that Wazzock expected to come out and chop the enraged stoatess to pieces, the device creaked on its gears, and separated into two parts, revealing a door behind it with a key hanging on a hook not entirely unlike Gloria's.

They all stared. Gloria harrumphed and stalked to the door, turning the key and kicking the door open.

"If I were that contraption, I wouldn't have argued either," Pip noted.

"Same here, chap, saaaaame here. I believe the anticlimactic is Gloria's style, anyway."

"She'd make for a very unfortunate playwright."

"We _really_ must have tea at some point, Pip."

They followed her into the last room. It appeared a little underwhelming for Wazzock's taste – a blank storm chamber lined by torches. The only notable things about the room were the few stairs that led down to a shallow pit in front of an oddly intricate sculpture of a fox across on the opposite wall and a round stone table in the center of the room. Voss pushed passed him. Wazzock took an opportunity at the file pages as he did so.

Voss mused over the statue, looking into its blank stone gaze, given an odd quirk when coupled with the imperial smile on its stone maw; oddly similar to the imperial smile on Voss's maw.

"So, where do the keys go?" Pip asked.

"Good question. Perhaps the keyholes are hidden somewhere."

"I can tell you where the key is," Voss said, in an odd singsong voice.

"Oh, really?" Pip asked.

"Yes, really," the Emperor countered. He moved to the side to reveal a podium in front of the statue, a vulpine pawprint carved into the stone on the top. "I am the key to everything... in more ways than one, really." The Emperor stepped out of the pit, paws behind his back, somehow looking down at them despite his body's aversion to vertical growth. "I thank you for your assistance in getting me here. Now, if you will allow me to open the chamber and retrieve the weapon, please turn away."

Gloria, Pip, and Wazzock glanced at each other, then back at the fox. None of them obliged to the request.

"Would you mind repeating that?" Wazzock said.

The Emperor smirked. "This weapon is of the highest importance. Do you really think that I can risk it being seen by your gazes? You fail to realize what lies on this development – the amount of power this will bring to my reign."

"The Imperium, you mean."

"Why would I care about the Imperium?"

Wazzock punched him solidly across the snout.

"Wazzock!" Gloria snarled as she hurried to assist the fox. "What in blazes are ye on about? Ye just punched the _Emperor_! Have ye lost yer mind completely? Yer-"

Wazzock used his open paw to slap Gloria across the face. He saw the fire light, the growl begin, the hackles rise. He stood his ground and stared long and hard into Gloria's fury.

"I don't have time to argue. The Emperor is a rat – not in the literal sense, but in the slang term bandied about during drunken card games. He is a conniving son of a vixen in on this whole mess for his own selfish gains, and I'm tired of having to deal with a creature who doesn't care a whisker about the beasts under him. A leader needs to respect those he leads. I may be a rubbish captain in the long haul, but at least I _care_."

"Wazzock, this is Emperor Fontesque Eckhart Voss the First yer talking about. He's everything the Imperium stood, stands, and will stand for!"

"Yes! Yes, I am," Voss added, glaring at Wazzock. "I want you to kill this traitorous scum, Captain Ruston. I command it!"

"Yer Grace, that's a bit..." Paw on the hilt of her sword, the stoat paused, staring between the rat and fox. She settled on Wazzock and barked, "Apologize, Wazzy! And stop whatever it is yer playing at. This isn't the time or the place for yer antics!"

"This is the perfect time for them. We are on the precipice of something that could change the Imperium as we know it, and I want to know: What side are you on?"

"This is s'stupid!"

"Tell me. Who's side are you on?"

"I don't..."

"Captain Ruston, I gave you an order."

"You decide now, Gloria. Who do you believe in more?"

"Kill that flea-bitten half-wit this instant!"

"I... Yer Grace... the... the file. What's in the file?"

"Captain Ruston!"

"Tell me, Gloria!"

She drew her sword and whirled on Wazzock, baring her teeth. "I'll kill ye for this, Wazzy," she promised before spinning on her heel and aiming the blade at Voss' nose.

Wazzock grinned. "Ah! Your form of answer, never fails to amuse, miss."

"Erm, Captains? Maniacal emperor still at stage left."

"Oh, charming," Voss mocked, his words accompanied by a click. "Such a lovely couple. What would the Blademaster and Lieutenant Pike think?" He raised a device in his paw, two spikes poking out of the front. "Well, if you're not going to be so compliant as to kill each other, I'll have to dispose of you myself. When it comes down to it, I really have to do everything myself these days. Subordinates can't even _lose_ wars properly. Ah... I'd tell you I will regret killing you, but that would be a lie. Gloria, you're a brute, Wazzock, you're just an idiot, and bird… you shall serve as a nice entrée later on.

"My poisoned darts should eliminate you all quite efficiently, and I'll take all the spoils and credit of retrieving the weapon. I have no idea why the Abalone Arbach made it such a bother in the first place. Oh, don't even think about stabbing me, Gloria, we both know you couldn't, and just trying will make your moments all the more fleeting. I want to you enjoy the view. In fact, I believe you make fantastic test subjects of what this weapon can do."

"What about the keys?" Pip ventured.

"What about them? They were made for each door and that is all. The only key necessary in the end is my dignified paw."

"That seems rather inconvenient. I mean, why would it be expected that you would ever come down here?"

"Well, the Colonel Abalone Arbach, who constructed this little puzzlement knew me too well. He must have known I would insist upon coming forth on any quest to find the weapon."

"That still doesn't make much sense. I…" The gears in Wazzock's head stopped him from going further. His gaze widened, from the shape of the pit, to the shape of the statue's foundation in the wall, to the fox's paw tapping against the apparent button. "You're as sly as a fox, Emperor Voss."

"Indeed, I am."

"Yer a traitorous pile of gulldroppings, fox! Ye'll never get away with this," Gloria snarled.

"You must stop being so cliché, Rusty," Wazzock whispered through the side of his mouth. "I'll give you lessons later on how to properly play off an evil mastermind's repertoire."

"I really have no idea what's going on here. So, your emperor is evil?" Pip asked.

"I believe so."

"Is there actually anyone who is good, though?"

"No. He's just more of a scoundrel than the rest at the moment."

"Stop jabbering," the Emperor snapped. "Don't you want to know the grand scheme of it all before I send you all to Hellgates?"

"Not really," Wazzock admitted. "I've been to a few of your speeches. I believe there's a street cart selling the transcripts as guaranteed to put restless kits to sleep in two whisker-twitches. I think they're used by the Fogeys to settle down bar fights. In fact-"

"_Shut up_! Well, I'll have you know that you will never expect the depth of this plan. Allow me to reveal what we have in store. With a press of my paw all will be…" He pressed his paw down. The pillar clicked, then sank into the ground. Then, the statue and foundation, lacking the support of the pillar, creaked. For one extended moment, it seemed nothing would happen, then, the Emperor could only watch as his stone visage leaned forward to meet him. The fox turned, but he was too late. He was knocked down by the slab into the pit.

A scream, a sound of organic cracking, and then silence. The statue and foundation had fallen into the pit, so that all that was left was a flat surface, and a fox's paw sheared off, twitching on the ground.

Beyond, a door stood, plain wood, with five locks down the edge.

"That was the most horrifying sound that I've ever heard."

"He's dead."

"I certainly hope so. It would be right disturbing if he was still alive now. Makes me all twitchy just thinking about it. Just… what is the word I'm looking for…Pip?"

"Gooey?"

"I think that about covers it. I guess the late MinoInn didn't like the chap much. Mmm… wonder how lucky fox's paws are. Might make a good gift to Cy. But first things first." Wazzock pulled the file out from under his coat.

"The file? When…"

"You underestimate my abilities. Learned pick-pocketing the same time as juggling. Best night classes I ever took. Ah, Pip, it appears your friends have arrived?" A hidden door opened at the side of the room, and a few beasts entered, followed by the sizable snout of a certain wearet, who couldn't quite get in past his neck. "Urie! And is that Ms. Steep I see? Nice you chaps and chapesses to join us."

"You!" Gloria and Steep growled at the same time.

"It appears you've already met Ms. Steep, Rusty." He watched as they barreled at each other, weapons being drawn. "Ah, so it seems you have some catching up to do. I guess I'll give you a rough synopsis of the file as I flip through." He tipped his hat to a befuddled marten, a companion of Ms. Steep who he hadn't quite caught the name of yet, as he walked up to the table, and climbed up. The table seemed like a proper venue for revealing secrets.

He carefully opened up the file as the clash of weapons began and Pip landed at his side and the wee marten kit he'd met before climbed up on the table, then promptly started sucking a claw. He patted the marten on the head.

"Now, on to storytime…" Wazzock started.


	76. Everybody Learns From Disaster

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 75. Everybody Learns From Disaster  
**

_by Seth  
_

It had them… Well, trapped wasn't the right word. But, it was standing in the hallway between them and the door where they wanted to go. It was _looking_ at them.

"What is it?"

Seth stared at it. It was incredibly huge. When it opened its mouth, large fangs glittered in the light.

"Do you have a fish?" it asked.

Seth blinked. "Em, I beg your pardon."

"A fish," it said again. "Or some tea?"

Keinruf peeked out from behind Seth's leg and stared at it with big eyes.

"Lieutenant!" Steep snapped. "What've I told you about speaking to civilians!"

"Excuse me, Captain." Seth said sourly. "I've never run into one this big before."

The creature sighed, and a mournful expression crossed its face. "I suppose that means you don't have fish."

"Em, would you forgive me if I asked you just… what you were?" Seth inquired.

"My name is Urie," it said. "I'm a wearet. Are you Southerners? Because I've been instructed to kill Southerners, but I like to ask first, just to be certain."

Keinruf detached himself from Seth's leg and moved a safe distance away before shaking his head 'No,' so hard that he fell on his tail.

Seth swallowed and eyed the massive bulk of the creature. "No, I can't say as we are," he said. "But if we see any, we'll be sure to inform you."

"Oh, good. You're very helpful. I say, are you a marten? You look like a marten. The little one is fuzzy. May I keep him?"

Seth eyed Keinruf. "You wouldn't eat him would you?"

"Are you turning on your country, Lieutenant?" Steep hissed. "We have a mission to accomplish here!"

"No, Captain," Seth hissed. "I'm preserving one of its future soldiers, and two standing officers."

"Well, hurry it up. We have to get to the vault before _that stoat_ does!"

"Er… Urie," ventured Seth, "would you happen to know where the vault that Lady Ruston is going to is? She's a slim female, hook, hangs about with a rat chap?"

Urie was still staring at Keinruf. "I wouldn't eat him, but I would like to keep him for a pet."

"Pity," Seth muttered. "I was about to say yes."

Keinruf edged closer to the creature and made an up and down motion with his paws, waggling his tail.

Seth stared. "Captain, I swear I never-"

"Shut up, Lieutenant. I don't want to-"

"He wants to know if he can have a ride," the wearet supplied.

The other two stood in dumb silence for a moment.

"Oh," said Seth. "Would you like to give him a ride?"

Urie's face broke into an obscenely large grin. "Oh, yes! Very much!"

Seth nodded. "Very well, I'll make you a deal: You take us to where Lady Ruston is, and you get to play with Keinruf."

"That sounds quite reasonable," Urie nodded. "I could give you all a ride as I sniff out the trail." He paused, eying Steep critically. "You're not a weasel or a ferret, are you?"

"Of course I am-"

"Not!" Seth interjected. "No weasels or ferrets here."

The wearet nodded again. "Right. Right. Just thought to be sure. Don't particularly like those sorts riding me, you understand. Just something unnatural about it."

***

It should have been in a play. Seth had seen hundreds of acts and stories in the opera house back home. There had been that one about the green leaf where everybeast died in an earthquake, and then another one where that dentist ferret fell in love with a fox, or was it the fox who fell in love with him? Still another about slave lines and revolt, and… well the list went on and on.

But this… this was stage-worthy.

Seth stood between Steep and Gloria, his sword stuck between them as theirs crossed and pushed at each other with deadly intent. Wazzock crouched on a table in the middle of the room, the file containing all the precious information that had caused the blood of hundreds to be spilled, open in his paws. Pip stood next to him, peering over his shoulder, while Keinruf sat on the edge of the table, sucking his thumb and kicking his footpaws back and forth.

"Do you think we ought to tell them?" Wazzock asked aloud, glancing at Pip.

Seth glared at the bird as it shrugged.

"Oh, I don't know." Pip said. "Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll all kill each other off."

Steep's sword slashed down and locked again in their metal pyramid.

"Ladies, ladies, really," Seth said smoothly, "why can't we talk about this?"

Steep twisted her blade out and around, Gloria ducking out of the way, catching a glancing blow on her sword.

"Nothing to talk about." Steep grunted. "M'gonna kill her!"

Seth blocked Steep's blow and kicked her backwards, then parried a blow from Gloria. Twist. Kick. Parry. Duck. Spin.

"Not if I get t'that Southern hussy first!" Gloria snapped. "I'll have her head mounted on m'wall and her pelt for a rug!"

"Vicious." Seth hissed as Steep's blade nicked his ear while on course for Gloria's head. "Just out of curiosity, would someone please explain to me why we're doing this?"

"She killed _my_ Pylaris!"

Gloria knocked Steep's blade away and shifted further back, eyes widening. "_You_? Yer Pylaris' Exotic Ale?" She bared her teeth and snarled, "I'll kill ye, ye malingering wench!"

"Really?" Seth asked. "Do you have to? I'd prefer it if you didn't." He dodged between them again and twisted his blade to stop Gloria taking Steep's ears off.

Step. Step. Block. Strike. Stab. Turn.

"She corrupted m'kit!"

"She killed my lover!"

"She's a disgrace t'her country and her rank!"

"She's a murderess!"

"I did not kill Pylaris! How many bloody times d'I have t'say it? If I had, I'd have taken more pleasure in cutting out the lad's traitorous heart!"

Seth ducked as both swords swished over him at neck height and locked at the hilt, both females face-to-face and nose-to-scabbed nose.

"I know _you_ know, Rusty. Just spreading around the information for the masses." Wazzock cut in again.

"Of course he was, ye moron!" Gloria snarled. "His bloody country was attacked!"

Seth stood quickly, bringing his own sword up and breaking through the lock, kicking Gloria back this time, and tripping Steep up. Well… he tried, only to find himself flat on his back, Steep's sword at his throat.

"Is there a reason you're preventing me from my duty, Lieutenant?"

Seth smiled and then hit her sword out of the way with his. "None whatsoever, only that I'd like _someone_ to explain to me exactly what's going on."

He rolled aside as Steep's blade hit the ground where his head had been and, parrying another blow, scrambled upright.

"It's clear as the sand on the shore and the stench from the Slups." Gloria growled, slashing at Steep's stomach. "I'm loyal t'my country, and ye frog-faced foreigners are invading it."

"But it seems like everybeast over you is loyal to my country." Seth twisted and jumped as his footpaws tried to part with his legs.

"Don't be an idiot, Lieutenant." Steep panted and kicked at Gloria. "Lock was a traitor too, as far as I'm concerned. He was in league with the Emperor, may a golden mist rain down on him. From a badger!"

With a scream of rage, Gloria rushed forward, blade a whirling windmill of death. Seth curled up and felt her trip over him and go flying forward still in her headlong rush. He stood up. Both females were glaring at him.

"The way I reckon it," Gloria hissed, "we have t'kill Lord Talks-a-lot, t'kill each other, aye?"

Steep's eyes narrowed. "My pleasure."

Seth took a step back. "Steady on there, ladies. I just want to know a few things."

Gloria and Steep began advancing. "Then let me enlighten you," Steep said, swinging at his head. "I've been told that the next world is a very knowledgeable place."

Seth dodged back and then blocked a blow from Gloria coming towards his shoulder. Then, Steep nicked his tail. With a snarl, Seth whirled on her.

"Haven't I been mutilated enough?" He swung his sword and caught the tip of her ear. She howled and reeled back. "That's for head-butting me!"

He turned to see Gloria coming up hard on his left. Slash. Hold. Twist. Lock. Break.

The clash of swords rang around the chamber with the shadow of death dancing to the beat.

"Steep!" Seth demanded. "Tell me one, just _one_, bloody thing that's going on here!"

"The General was a traitor to the South," Steep snarled and slashed at his chest.

"Good, now another one!"

"And, sorry to be the seagull of bad news," Wazzock said calmly, "but it appears your father was involved, Mr. Devonshire."

Seth blinked, and almost got his head lobbed off for his pains. "What?"

"William Devonshire helped fund this war to find whatever it was our esteemed Emperor wants!"

Seth tried a nod and dropped to the floor, kicking Gloria's footpaws out from under her.

"I knew that!" He snapped.

"Your father was involved too, Ms. Steep," Wazzock announced, waving a bit of parchment in the air. "Says so. Right here."

Seth felt his brow furrowing. "That doesn't make any sense!" he shouted. "Unless he was funding or something!"

Wazzock picked up another piece of paper and held it up. Pip peered at it.

"Keinruf, you stay on that table!" Seth shouted as the little marten spotted something on the ground and began to clamber down. "Or I will have _words_ with you!"

"Apparently," Pip began while Seth rolled on the floor, trying to avoid being kicked by both Steep and Gloria, "lots of beasts were involved. Emperor Fontesque Eckhart Voss I, he's dead now…"

"Obviously. Oh, and for future reference, that's his paw on the ground over there… I called dibs. Might be a good souvenir if properly treated," Wazzock added. "Anyway, I don't want to build the tension with unnecessary pauses. There was also , Emperor Bob Malachite-"

"What a stupid name," Seth muttered and tried to keep all parts of him attached while he waved his sword in Gloria's direction.

"- Baltsar, Minister of War-"

Seth hit Steep's footpaw with the flat of his sword.

"-that Beandish chappy, Minister of Niceties, he was in on it, too,-

Steep kicked Seth in the stomach.

"-Seems the only beast who wasn't involved was that lizardy chappess, Minister of Misanthropy, Akilina."

Seth swung at Gloria's ankles.

"-And… if I'm not mistaken, it looks like this whole war was just a cover.. That's a dash rubbish, isn't it? In general, not in believability. A rubbish lot."

Three swords clattered to the floor. Five and a half eyes turned to stare at Wazzock.

"Do you mean to say," Seth said slowly, "that I've been dragged halfway across the bloody world, been beaten near to death, been given a kit I don't particularly want and that will be _very_ difficult to explain to Sadie, and been forced to slaughter countless beasts in this country… for a sham?"

Wazzock smiled at him. "I'm _so_ glad you caught on!"

Steep took a deep, shuddering breath. "Pylaris died for a fraud?"

"Er..."

Gloria blinked. "I've been bowing and scraping t'a lot of traitors?"

"Yes. It would seem so."

Seth cleared his throat. "So… if everybeast is a traitor… and this war is simply a cover…" He paused. "Cover for what?"

Wazzock dug through the scraps of papers again. Pip snatched one out with his beak.

"It looks like the Imperium was supposed to turn the weapon over to the South to aid in their efforts of expanding, and in return, we leave them alone and expand… elsewhere."

"Doesn't that make this war a bit… ironic?" Seth inquired.

"Inspires patriotic feelings towards your country, Lieutenant," Steep snapped. "Now if you don't mind, I still want to kill her!"

The three dived for their swords.

"Wait!" Seth shouted. "Just wait a bloody minute. Don't you dare point those at me, ladies, as far as I'm concerned, we're the only loyal ones here. The five of us, and that lizard chap-"

"Chappess," Wazzock supplied.

"_Chappess_," Seth glared at the rat, "The five of us are loyal."

Keinruf raised a paw.

"You don't count. You're not legal yet," Seth snapped.

"I still want to kill her," Steep snapped.

"Oh, I ken the feeling's mutual, lassie," Gloria growled.

"Hold on a bloody minute! If you two don't stop it, then I'm killing both of you!" Seth glared at them.

Pip choked back a laugh.

Keinruf joined in, making absurdly blissful gurgling noises.

"Shut up and listen!" Seth snapped. "We're basically the only ones here to do our jobs actual, right? Only we've just found out that we're _not_ supposed to do our jobs. Or do them in a twisted traitorous way..." He paused and sighed. "What's this weapon do anyway?"

Wazzock shrugged. "Haven't the slightest idea. Perhaps it turns everybeast into fish! Wouldn't that be a tasty end? Well, not for us, but for Urie if he managed to get in…"

"Wonderful. Everybeast isn't cold and slimy enough already." Seth peered around and waved his sword in the air. "I don't suppose anybeast here would consider a temporary truce to get out of this mess?" he ventured.

"Over m'dead body."

"I'll help you with that!"

"Stop it, both of you! Pip, what're your thoughts?" Seth turned to the bird who shrugged.

"Much as I'd like to see Captain Ruston dangle by her own innards over the pit of Kneenibblers back there, and you, Captain, back to your usual surly self instead of the toy soldier you've become... I suppose there are worse evils afoot." The bird shrugged. "We might as well deal with the unknown first. We _know_ what we're up against with each other."

"And Wazzock?"

"I'm of the same sentiments as Pip. And I just want my crew back on the old Stormchaser and everybeast involved out of this bloody quagmire. One can't properly enjoy the taste of tea."

Seth turned back to Gloria and Steep. "That's three against two," he snapped.

"We outrank you," Steep growled.

"We outnumber you," Seth growled back.

"We could lay the lot of ye out with both paws tied b'hind our backs."

"You don't have two paws to tie behind your back, Ms. Gloria. And in any case, you're just being silly now. You want to save the Imperium? Let's deal with the traitors to it first, then the outsiders."

Slowly the two females lowered their blades.

"And," Seth said grandly, "When we're done getting out of this mess, and everyone is on the proper side again, we'll let you finish killing each other."

Steep sheathed her sword. "It's a deal."

"I can live with it," Gloria muttered.

"Now, then," Seth said, sheathing his own weapon. "Why don't we find out just what our two emperors thought was so important to stage a war about."


	77. Everything You Ever

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 76. Everything You Ever  
**

_by Steep  
_

_"Priscilla? Priscilla, we've been looking for you for hours, dinner's getting—what are you doing? Get away. From. That. Ledge."_

"Go 'way..."

"No."

"Don't want you t'see..."

"Then don't do it. Step down. Step down! That's an order, Lieutenant Steep_."_

She couldn't move. Not backwards, not forwards. Paws grabbed her arms, spinning her around and hauling her back through the window.

She buried her head into her father's chest and cried.

"You stupid fool... bloody stupid... I'm sorry, Priss. I'm sorry. You want to try the leaches? We'll try the leaches, okay? Anything you want. Anything you want..."

"I couldn't—couldn't do it... I promised..."

"Shh, shh... it's okay now. Shh, my sweet..."

~*~*~*~*~

Steep sat on a barrel. Across the room, the other four argued and waved paws in the air, shouting obscenities every so often as they read through the file.

Throughout this, Steep found herself staring straight ahead. The vault's air felt thick and weighted, pressing it in around her, squeezing her head. Her paws dripped with sweat, and little electrical shocks ran through her fur whenever somebeast stirred enough to cause a draft. The stink of sulfurry wrapped itself through her sinuses. She could barely hear what Pike was saying; her ears and mouth felt full of cotton, and the beat of her heart was a funeral snare that drowned out all other senses.

The weasel shut her eye tight. She'd failed. She'd failed everyone, and everyone had failed her. It was almost fair, in some stupid cosmic sense.

Her paws were shaking. Her whole body shook and shivered, but it was worse in her paws. Turning her cigar case over and over, staring blindly at the inscription and the tiny silver hinges, she dropped it several times onto her lap.

She flicked the lid open, dumped the soggy wreckage out and sniffed the inside. How long had it been since she'd had a proper smoke? Or eaten, for that matter? The last meal she could remember was Pleasantrie's picnic. That had been before he told her about the SLA...

She could barely feel her stomach over the constant ocean-roar of pain ebbing from her head. It was getting worse, she was sure of it. Couldn't think clearly. Made her jumpy. Irrational.

More than usual, that is.

What was she thinking, siding with Ruston?

She really needed a cigar. Maybe she could choke herself to death on it.

"Captain?" Devonshire said, sitting on the barrel beside hers. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she lied, her voice empty and strained from the miles it had to travel to reach her own ears.

"Pip's done with the file. He thought you might want to read it yourself."

"No."

What good would it do? What good had knowing ever done anyone? She didn't need to know anything else.

_Give me this one moment of ignorance. Let me pretend, just for now, that the world makes sense, that everything I've fought for had—has a purpose to make things... better._

One moment.

It passed.

She sighed.

Devonshire reached out, put his paw over hers, quelling the shaking. She didn't look up at him. Didn't tell him to stop, or try to strike out at him.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. It was too late to care about what anybeast else thought. They weren't soldiers anymore. Although if she was ever asked to pick out the best soldier in the army, the choice would be startlingly simple.

Devonshire... had just the right amount of ignorance to remain loyal in face of everything. He wasn't so good with orders when they involved keeping quiet, but... he was here. With his son. That alone was some kind of admirable.

The rest of them were all traitors of some kind—not just the beasts in this room, but everyone, everywhere. She was no better off, promising herself to Scott while running away to find Pylaris. For just once in her life, she had thought love—love, that fickle, irritating emotion—really was more important than anything else. Better than country, better than kin, better than duty. Better than life. And yet, love was the first to betray her.

Of all those things, all she had left was duty. She knew not to whom, but she knew it was important. It had been the first thing she'd ever understood, duty. You did the job you had to do. You did the job you _didn't_ have to do. That was her life. It was the only reason life was worth it.

Love... was a kind of duty.

Being a patriot. Honouring your Emperor. Both duties.

It all boiled down to that one simple task: to press on, despite everything. Hide it all away, put up a façade of competence and confidence, pretend you didn't feel, every minute of every day, that lancing, rending feeling in your skull and soul—one physical, one mental, intertwining like the knot in your gut that a simple song about ducks could never, ever untie.

It was the only thing she had ever really been good at.

And now she could feel it slipping.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine."

~*~*~*~*~

_She gripped the rope with both paws and pulled, lifting herself off the floor. The beam creaked, but held. Paws trembling, she made the knot._

She stepped onto the stool, adjusted the length, slipped her head in, tightened it.

She looked around the room. She'd done her best to clean things up. The broken glass was swept into a corner, the drawers were put back in the desk, the clothes folded and put in the closet once again.

No more secrets, she'd promised. At least one promise she could keep. All of Pylaris's letters lay on her bed, the envelopes arranged by date. She tucked the last note, addressed to her father, into the pocket of her uniform. If she had more time, she would have ironed it first—the uniform. It was enough simply to wear it one last time, creased or not.

"Sorry, da... Sorry, Pyl."

She swallowed, and then took a step in the air.

Her legs flailed, her tail turning circles behind her. Her throat filled with spit and her eyes filled with tears. Her ears burned as the rope slipped.

The stool cracked beneath her weight and rolled away. She lay awkwardly on the floor, staring up at the swaying noose.

She didn't cry.

~*~*~*~*~

"The powder goes in there..."

"No, it goes in this bit over here."

"What, are ye blind? I ken there's only one place it can go. Ye've got the wrong diagram, ye morons."

"Are you sure it's the right powder? There's several kinds on this shelf. And look, this is just like a baking recipe. Does anybeast remember the Baker of Zann's Alley? Used exploding cake to kill beasties? That was one of my favourite bedtime tales."

"Shut it, Wazzy. Let's try this one first. It looks... mixed."

"Okay, so, how much? Ooh, there's little measuring cups here. What next?"

"Some of these metal balls..."

"The metal balls...?"

"Mm, lead. Fairly certain it's lead. Silver's tangier. Oh, this one's stone. Granite? Mm, no, adoquin. Peculiar. Word of advice, chaps: don't gnaw on them."

"Why would we—nevermind. How many, then, Mr. Pleasantrie?"

"Well, this diagram says one, but this other one says three... shall we say two? After that, wad up a bit of parchment and jam it all in there with this stick."

"What's the parchment for?"

"S'the balls don't roll out when ye point it about, I ken. Careful! Not at me, Wazzy!"

"We do need a target, though... any Ministers hanging around?"

"I say we aim it at one of those bats!"

"Best t'be sure it works a'tal b'fore we try it on beasties like as not t'eat us alive if it fails."

"Right, so we shoot the door first, then. That's simple enough."

"Agreed."

The resulting noise caused Devonshire to leap up with his paws clamped to his ears and shout something that sounded not unlike, "I'll get the windows, Sadie!" Keinruf slid off his lap and thumped to the floor, grinning maniacally as he clapped his paws.

"_Squawk_! By Ataxas' Pellets!"

"Emperors that ever were!"—this accompanied by a whistle.

Steep didn't move from her barrel. Her eyes remained affixed to the weapon in Pike's grasp. Smoke bellowed, but the damage to the door could clearly be seen from her position. When she blinked, she could see the after-image again and again, the fire spewing from the muzzle of the weapon...

_I see... it's like a crossbow, but without the bow... And instead of bolts, it has little metal balls that... explode?_

"Quick, load it up again! This is brilliant! Isn't this brilliant, Pip? Just like a real dragon!"

"What?" Pleasantrie shouted.

"What?" Pike shouted back.

"Sorry?"

"I'd like some, yes! Thank you! Always a good time for tea!"

"No, it was rather more orange!"

"Will the both of ye shut it? Look, there's more cylinders over here. We should load up more'n a few. Ooh, look at this one."

"I bet I could fit my head in there, if I were a slinky weasel chap. Ms. Steep, are you sure you don't want to try? Hm, guess not."

Steep had her back turned to them. She had stood up and was now investigating a shelf in the back of the room. There was considerably more dust here, and the cylinder models looked a bit more rustic—but that just meant less bits and knobs for her to figure out. She had no desire to be anywhere near Pike and Ruston, ogling over the diagrams they'd found.

Pleasantrie, looking a bit more goggle-eyed and ruffled than usual, stumbled over and set himself down beside Devonshire's barrel. Keinruf clambered up onto him. Devonshire sat down again, rubbing his ears.

Combing over the shelves, Steep found a good cylinder, simple brass, about the length of her tail. She leveled the weapon against her shoulder. It felt somehow... right. Her paws were made for this. Bows and arrows—what stupid inventions! This was the future of war. She could feel it flowing through her arms, as much a part of her as her claws and teeth. What need of swords would anybeast ever have, with such a weapon?

But apart from that, it was something else entirely. An answer to a question she couldn't bring herself to ask anymore. It was everything she ever wanted. Quick. Easy.

She had promised him.

She couldn't do it.

Then what was left?

She found powder, the same colour as the mixed stuff Ruston had found. She poured it in, as much as could fit in her paw. She found the metal balls—three should do it, in case her aim wasn't so good. A scrap of parchment? Dipping her paw into her pocket, she withdrew Scott's letter. She crumpled it and stuffed it in the barrel. Good riddance.

Well, she didn't need to stuff it down with a stick, did she? The letter was supposed to keep it all in. It would do just fine. She was quite ready.

"Ruston," she growled, her voice booming through the chamber. "Ruston! You wheezin' murderer—look at me!"

The stoat stopped talking with Pike and Pleasantrie and turned around. Devonshire glanced between the two.

"Oh, not again..."

"What's this about then, Prissy?" the stoat demanded, as she slid behind a pillar in the middle of the vault. "We had an accord. I'll put the axe t'yer neck in good time. No need t'speed it along."

"You killed my mother... couldn't even—couldn't even do it right. Left her to—to die in my arms, and she never got to! You killed Pylaris. A coward, Ruston! You're a bloody coward! Couldn't even do it yourself that time! Couldn't look him in the eye, had to send somebeast else to do it for you. What sort—what kind of mother is that? Come out and _face me_!"

"Steep, put the weapon down!" Devonshire shouted.

"The kind of mother who wouldn't let her kits stay worthless, spineless, traitorous scum!" Ruston shouted. "I looked that lad in the eye for twenty years while he was lying through his teeth. Lying and b'traying me - b'traying his father and brothers and sister and _everybeastie_ who called the Imperium home. He b'trayed his _country_! He b'trayed–" The stoat's voice cracked. Steep sidled around, but no matter the angle, Ruston stayed behind the pillar. "He b'trayed me and m'country, and don't ye _dare_ tell me it was cowardice t'make certain that—that _adder_ in a stoat's pelt didn't hurt m'country any more than he had! I loved Pylaris, but he—he had t'die!"

"I loved him more than you," Steep said, stalking closer. "You're the gutless traitor, Ruston. Look at what you put over him—look at what your precious Imperium is worth to you now! He never betrayed it, if this is what it wanted all along! Now we _both_ have nothing left–"

"Captain!" Pleasantrie begged, a flurry of feathers that she had to kick aside.

"I still have Regi, ye half-witted hussy! I still—I still have him!"

"–but I have this," the weasel went on, her voice fraying ragged around the edges. "I have this—I've got you, Ruston. I'll avenge my mother, and Pylaris, and all the other kits you've killed..."

"_Steep!_ Would you _listen_ to us?"

Ruston reached over and snatched the other weapon from Pike's paws. She leaned out from the pillar, aiming at Steep with expert precision, her hook readied against the trigger.

"Ye don't ken anything about me or m'family, Priscilla Steep. Don't ye _dare_ presume t'judge me."

Steep faltered, eyes focused on the barrel.

"Put the weapon down. Now!" Ruston commanded.

"Do it, Steep!" Devonshire said. "That's an—an _order!_"

Her paws were shaking again. The weapon rattled, excess powder spilling from the muzzle.

_But... if I do this... then what do I have? I'm so tired—so bloody tired of everybeast taking things away from me._

"Captain..." Pleasantrie said. "It looks like we were all in the wrong, here. Maybe you should put down the weapon while we all try and work through it."

_I could miss. I could miss and she won't, and she'll have won, and if there's anything I hate more than being robbed again and again, it's giving the enemy a victory. What kind of soldier would I be, if I let her kill me? A bad one. I will _not_ die a bad soldier!_

Steep pulled the weapon up. The room breathed a sigh that caught in their throats—she nestled the stock in the crook of her elbow, the weapon's muzzle pressed against her chin.

Ruston blinked, then cocked her head to one side. "Ah... yer a strange and pathetic beastie ye are, Prissy. Go on, then. Do it! Ye call me a coward, eh? What about _you_? A coward's defeat. Do it!"

Steep cast about for something to say, anything to say, to defend herself. In the end, there was nothing. She didn't need to explain herself to this stoat or—or anybeast.

She had promised him.

He wasn't here anymore.

She closed her eyes against the flash and fire of death.

~*~*~*~*~

_He reached down and pulled her out of the water. Frost clung to her whiskers, but she laughed._

"That's not how to avoid rocks, I take it."

"No," Pylaris chuckled. "Not at all."

"You've got sand on your nose," she said, and licked it off.

They turned and surveyed the wreckage of their rowboat, and the crates of spices that drifted in the current.

"Well, we have two choices," Pylaris said. "We swim back across to the other side, or..."

"Or?"

"We hike the three miles to the coast and use the Emperor Tarquin bridge, and try to explain to the port authorities what a Lieutenant of the Southern Empire is doing this side of the river, when none of you are allowed out of town without the Emperor's express permission..."

"Option three," she said, dragging him by the paw towards a hole in the cliff face. "We dry off, stay warm until nightfall, and then_ hike the three miles to the bridge, then sneak across without anybeast the wiser. Except us."_

"And if we're caught?"

"We won't be caught."

"But if we are?"

She giggled. "I'll just have to kill all the guards, then, won't I? Come on—off with that sodden shirt, before you catch cold."

Pylaris raised a paw in protest, but was silenced by her skirt suddenly draped over his head.

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant Steep!"

The cave glowed for an hour, as the sun set, and then cast them into darkness.

She held him tight afterwards, resting her head against his chest. She sighed.

"I love you, Pylaris."

"I know."

His heart thrummed.

~*~*~*~*~

Her ears rung with the grey noise of far off crickets.

She stumbled back, touched the wall, slid down until her tail met floor.

Her arm hung by a strap of flesh at her elbow. Her chest was shreds of cotton seared into her skin. Any cream-white bib was now black as charcoal, red as crushed winterberry.

She tried to swallow, and choked on bits of bone, blood, fur and tooth.

Her eyes focused. She didn't understand what everybeast was staring at, mouth gawping open like beached sharks. She lowered her eyes to the ground, spotting her eyepatch. She reached down and picked it up. It was a singular thought that engulfed her brain in its entirety: she had to put it back on, or her eye wouldn't heal. That was important.

Her paw raised up, pressing the eyepatch against her face. Her face... wasn't there.

She lost control, then.

Everything came out. Blood gushed from the remnants of her arm, bile dripped from her mouth, seeped out between her ribs and was soaked up by the tatters of her jacket. She was aware of other fluids escaping her body, the smell assaulting her panicked senses. Worst of all was the sound from her throat, which needed no mouth to make itself heard. To hear that sound was to know fear; to know that sound was from her own self was to know horror.

Pleasantrie's golden sheen flashed in her vision, and she reached out to him.

_Help me, Pip!_ she screamed. There was no change in the gurgling.

Pleasantrie—Pip, he'd always been Pip to her—shook his head. Another shape, a motley assortment of colour, detached from Pip's back and clung to her arm. In the shadows beyond, Devonshire's face faded into view. For one brief second, their eyes met.

She blinked, and they were gone.

~*~*~*~*~

His heart thrummed. Her ear felt warm against his chest. Eyes shut tight, he was literally all the world to her.

Her other ear flicked as his whiskers brushed it, his voice a whisper.

"How do you feel?"

She put a paw to her face.

"I don't feel–"

She opened her eyes and looked up at his smile.

"–a thing."

end of week six. 


	78. An Old Fashioned UN

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week seven. 

**Chapter 77. An Old Fashioned U.N.  
**

_Presented by Gloria, written by Lock  
_

_In 1785 in the capitol of the Southern Empire..._

Emperor Bob Malachite chewed his own greens with some distaste. He had never been overly fond of vegetables - eating something which bore the color of his own army's uniforms seemed slightly treacherous in a way. Not to mention, he deplored the taste. But it was well known that eating vegetables led to at least twenty more years of life, and silkier fur was guaranteed. And so the weasel forced himself to swallow the broccoli, trying not to grimace in front of his dinner guest.

The guest in question, however, seemed to greatly enjoy the vegetables, almost ignoring his plover as he ploughed through his carrots. Wiping his mouth daintily with a napkin, the fox smiled happily. "Delectable. A stunning display of how one prepares a side dish."

Malachite nodded as he wiped his own mouth, deciding it would be in bad form to spit out his broccoli into the napkin, and settled with a grin. "I am pleased that we have met the approval of your palette, Lord Voss."

The Emperor-in-Waiting, Lord Fontesque Eckhart Voss, began to work on his portion of plover. "And you say they were grown by your woodlanders? Who knew that they were good for something! No matter how hard we seem to try, we vermin have the hardest luck growing edible vegetables."

The weasel helped himself to the red wine, taking the last few drops of the bottle. "Sadly, I have the hardest time convincing the woodlanders how lucky they are to have us guide them. A few of the louder ones have taken to calling themselves 'The Southern Liberation Army,' whatever that means. They've been causing trouble all over the countryside, and have been driving my generals mad. Between them and your Emperor Carmike, it's a miracle I sleep at night."

Voss wrinkled his nose in distaste. "As we are not within hearing range of any stooges, I can assure you, I hardly consider Carmike to be my emperor."

"Then, I am very pleased we did not have your ship destroyed upon its arrival. I'm sorry, please continue."

"He's an absolute relic living in the past. Just as every Emperor before him, they all believe our Vulpine Imperium is the only place in the world, and that we're surrounded by an invisible wall keeping the rest of it out."

Malachite nodded understandingly, sipping his wine carefully. He had been playing mind-games with Carmike for years now, and sending the Emperor-in-Waiting as a pretended sympathizer wouldn't be beyond his rival. "And you think otherwise?"

The fox nodded, eyes gleaming. "My good Emperor, I have only been on your mainland for a few days, and though it may cause great pain to my peers, I adore Southern culture. The cuisine, the art, the music! Things one simply doesn't find among the hovels and slums of Bully Harbour. Ah, it does my heart good to be among _civilized_ creatures."

"I had thought that the Imperium was renowned for its venture into culture."

"All the Vulpine Imperium is renowned for is being a cesspool of pirates and vagabonds. Half of our civil servants are either insane or incompetent, and our citizens are crooks and drunks. The whole thing, as far as I'm concerned, is rotting from the inside. Now, Southern culture!" Voss said, waving his fork in emphasis. "Far more preferable. If I wasn't in line to be emperor, I should leave the whole thing behind and side firmly with you."

Malachite smirked as Voss told him everything he already knew about the Vulpine Imperium. "You might as well, you know. That military parade you bore witness to today was not designed simply to show off how well dressed the army is. Surely you know we outclass, out-number, and out-match anything you can put forward. Not to mention, General Scott has already placed forward a plan which I think would ensure victory on our part."

Voss shrugged. "Certainly, that is well known to me. Also well known to me is that Emperor Carmike is going to have something of an accident in a few months time."

"Is that a fact?"

"Indeed. And being Emperor-in-Waiting, it seems only fitting that I prepare for further issues down the road." Pushing his empty plate aside and allowing the server to remove the dishes, Voss placed his paws on the table. "I'm more than prepared to see smoother relations between the Vulpine Imperium and the Southern Empire in the future. Impositions upon Southern shipping will cease, naturally, and I'm certain trade between our two countries will include fewer tariffs, and suchlike."

The weasel tapped his claws on the table. If Voss was truly earnest about taking the throne and improving relations, that was fine. However... "I truly appreciate the offer, Lord Voss. The motion is not without merit, and I sympathize with your desire for some understanding between us. Yet, as I see it, I stand with all the cards in this game, and conquering your empire simply to expand my own is still a viable option." Noticing the frown on his guest's face, Malachite raised his paws in a placating fashion. "Nothing personal, of course. Simply in the interest of the Empire, you understand."

Voss did understand. "Yes, yes, I can see what you mean." Drumming his claws as he thought, a tell-tale eyebrow rose on the fox's face. "Suppose I were to... sweeten the deal a bit?"

"Do tell."

Malachite looked with intrigue as Voss reached into his robe pocket and produced, of all things, a cut-out piece of newspaper, dated Primary 11, 1781. He passed it to the weasel.

With no small amount of confusion, the Emperor looked up from the article he had just finished reading. "Dragons? What poppycock. There have been no dragons sighted for over five hundred years."

Smiling knowingly, Voss agreed, "Complete poppycock, you are correct. This so-called 'dragon attack' on the Harbour was nothing supernatural. I have my ear to the ground, and know for a fact that this explosion was caused by something which the Minister of Innovations has been dabbling with."

Now it was Malachite's turn to frown with concern. "You mean to say that he's developed something that can level whole buildings in a flash?" Leaning back in his chair, the weasel rubbed his chin. "Remarkable."

"Very. More so when one considers the requisition form he put forward for several tons of the ingredients. Surely if it were all manufactured, the results would be powerful beyond comprehension." Keenly observing the awe of Malachite's face, Voss pushed forward. "And I can see to it that you receive this weapon, in exchange for future peace and improved relations."

It was a hard offer to turn down. If this thing could produce the kind of results which the newspaper claimed, it would certainly make dealing with the SLA a sight easier. Not to mention further expansion of the Southern Empire would be made possible, easing the population crisis which had become a nuisance. Malachite had fancied taking a crack at that salamander-mountain anyway. As for leaving the Imperium in one piece, well, Voss was eager to please, and had his heart in the right place. It wasn't likely he would cause much trouble. Besides, Malachite thought with an inner smile, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to simply set up a puppet government if things went sour.

"It seems, Lord... excuse me, Emperor Voss, that we have an understanding. The Southern Empire and Vulpine Imperium shall equally thrive, should we pull this trade off." A slight pause gave light to a nagging doubt in the back of Malachite's mind. "By the way, who else knows of your... dealings?"

"The Minister of War, Lord Baltsar, is fully on board, and I believe I have the ears of Lord Beandish Arnold and Lord Brewtus. Ministers of Niceties and Finance, respectively."

The weasel tapped his wine glass with some concern. "Only three ministers?"

Voss seemed a tad surprised at Malachite's concern. "Well, three very important ministers. Of course, I wouldn't dream of telling the Minister of Misanthropy, Lady Alkilina. That whole branch of the government is practically a cover for organized crime. There's no telling what she'd do with this information if she found out. And Colonel Abalone Arbach, Minister of Innovations, has a reputation for being slightly weak-willed. Not to mention, he'd resent losing his own invention in the process. And, of course, we couldn't let the various noble classes into the plot. Most of them are as antiqued in their thought process as the current Emperor."

"Yes, yes, I understand, but..." Malachite sat up straight, holding his head in his paws as he leaned on the table. "That is still only a few fish in a very big pond of politics. There are countless aristocrats, bureaucrats, and nobles who hate the South every bit as much as Carmike ever did. Not to mention years of propaganda have hardly endeared us on the local level. If the first act you made as an emperor was to embrace the Imperium's long standing arch-enemy, you would have revolution on your paws in a flash, and we'd be in much of a bind as we were before."

Voss raised a claw as if he had a point, which quickly dropped as he realized he too was stumped. "I... hadn't considered that," he mumbled, anticlimactically. The two emperors sat in silence, each pondering a way to make this international relationship even possible. "Bloody nuisance, I can't ponder it now," the fox declared, tossing out his idea for a mass bribing plan which would render the country bankrupt.

Malachite glanced idly at his empty wine glass, wondering how much it had affected him. He had something of an idea, but it seemed rather drastic, and he wasn't certain if Voss would go for it. Still, it was better than nothing. "You recall my mentioning earlier about how the mere sight of my army should be more than enough to quell any thoughts of resistance, yes?"

"Of course. But I doubt we could ferry the entire upper class of the Vulpine Imperium over to your palace without any hindrance. Not to mention, we have more than enough hot-heads who would demand fighting on anyway."

"Perhaps not. You put your claw on it. So long as the will to fight remains in the higher echelons of society, we shall never get anywhere. So, what needs to go, then, is the will to fight."

"I'm not certain I follow."

"It's simple. You know that my armies can defeat yours on paper. The war-hawks require visual aids. If they want a fight, they shall receive it."

Voss blinked several times before stammering, "You mean... a war? But, but I thought we just agreed to avoid..."

"Not a full blown conflict, my dear Emperor, just enough to kick the teeth out of the sharks, so to speak. Once they suffer a few defeats, your nobles will be begging you to sign a peace deal with us. And then we proceed as planned."

The fox rubbed his brow. It was a tricky thing, that was for certain. Not that he cared overmuch about the army or soldiers involved in the dying process. They resembled everything he hated about the current Imperium: wretches who scratched and clawed for a few coins in order to go get boozed every night. And it would be an excellent humbling motivation for his so called 'peers.' No beast would question his rule after he single-pawedly stopped the attack on his kingdom. Not to mention that in the resulting rubble, Voss could rebuild the Imperium as _he_ saw fit. Surely Malachite would be only too willing to lend some of his own resources to rebuild in a more Southerly manner. The real problem was that if anybeast caught an inkling of what was going on, Voss's career as royalty would be over, and that wouldn't do at all. "I couldn't possibly tell the commanders of my forces to lose," he started. "I wouldn't trust anybeast outside of my immediate sphere with this kind of plan. They'd probably muck it up with a bunch of loyalist rhetoric."

Malachite agreed. "Knowledge of this should be kept to a bare minimum, certainly. Not to worry, the true knowledge of our little game shall be kept only to a few of my officers and staff."

Voss looked doubtful. "Are you certain you won't have the same troubles as me? Regarding resentment about making a deal? And what of losing soldiers in a phony war? I'd have thought that would break some level of officer's honor. You'd have to find somebeast completely immoral, uncaring about life lost, and indifferent to the means so long as the ends worked. All that takes a very cold customer."

Malachite smiled as he summoned the waiter. "Kindly fetch me General Lock."


	79. Another Empty Chair

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 78. Another Empty Chair  
**

_by Seth  
_

"Steep, Captain! Captain!"

He could feel the words rasping in his throat as he screamed at the mutilated creature. It gurgled back at him, its body thrashing about as blood gushed from wounds too grisly to imagine. Only that was what convinced him it was real.

"Captain!"

Beside him, Seth could feel Pip scrabbling about, squawking some gibberish or other at what was left of the weasel. Seth blinked and felt a snarl rise. Why didn't the stupid bird move back, give her air?

Keinruf, what was the kit doing now? The little creature clung to the weasel's good arm, tugging at it as if it would bring the shattered bits of bone and skin back together. Seth felt words moving up in his throat, choking each other in their attempt to get out.

Now what was happening? Pip was shushing, bringing a wing over her shoulder. And he was raising his claw… Why? To close her eyes? She wasn't dead yet! He saw her eyes roaming, searching… here, he was here! He wasn't her lover, he was just a soldier, but they had something. Something different than love.

Her eyes met his. For a single instant of life left, she looked at him. Not Pip, not Gloria, not a bottle of grog. She looked at him.

Then Pip's claw came down on her throat. The remaining light in her eyes faded.

Seth swallowed as silence filled the room. Steep was still staring at him, but her eyes were glassy. Dead.

She was dead.

She was… _dead_.

Slowly, with numbing precision, he reached out and pulled her eyes closed.

_"Don't touch me Lieutenant!_

His paw felt slimy. Blood, her blood, soaking into his uniform.

_"Just don't step in the blood," she said. "It tracks paw-prints like you wouldn't believe."_

There was movement beside him, the sound of feathers.

Seth's head turned, his eyes focused. There was blood on Pip's claws.

_"Mr. Pleasantrie... Lieutenant? Would you like some grasshoppers?"_

"You," Seth hissed. "You!"

Pip's head snapped around to look at him. The plover's beak was moving, but no sound seemed to come out.

Seth was standing, shaking. Why was he shaking? Rage? Grief? Hate?

"You killed her!" he whispered. "You killed her!" Louder. "_You_ killed her!"

He felt his body lurch forward, arms up, claws extended. He had killed her! He had killed their captain. _My_ captain!

Pip jumped back, his wings flapping at Seth's face as the marten attacked. There was a sudden roar of sound as Keinruf let out a screech of sobbing.

"You killed her!" Seth screamed, tearing at the bird's feathered breast. "You killed my captain! We could have helped her! I'm the son of William Devonshire! I can do anything! You killed her!"

The feathers under his claws turned red. Was it Steep's blood or Pip's? He felt the bird's claws scrabbling at his underbelly but he didn't care.

"Seth!" Pip shouted, ducking under one of the marten's blows, "Seth, look at her! She was gone! It was mercy!"

Seth snarled and tried to claw at the bird's eyes. "Mercy! _Mercy!_ There's no such thing!"

"Seth, stop!"

The marten howled as Pip pecked at his ribs. "Gerroff me!"

He growled as someone attacked him from behind, dragging him off the bird, holding his arms behind him as he struggled to finish what he'd begun.

"Traitors!" he screamed. "All of you! Every single one of you! Not a bloody one of you is loyal to anybeast but themselves!"

Something struck his face, twisting his head to the side from the force of the blow.

"Lord Devonshire, stop it!" Gloria snapped. "Yer a beastie of noble blood. We don't go crying over corpses; we carry on!"

His eyes focused. Lady Ruston stood in front of him, paw raised to strike him again. "Now, pull yerself t'gether. That's an order!"

"You," Seth growled, spitting on the ground, "are not my captain!"

_"We're soldiers, Lieutenant. We don't question orders, we just follow them."_

She hit him again. "And _you_, M'lord, have yer head up yer tail."

He struggled against the beast holding him, but Wazzock's grip was firm.

"Steady on old chap," the rat said. "There's nothing anybeast could have done."

Something trickled down the side of Seth's face. His tongue flicked out. It was salty, without the metallic taste of blood.

A little paw stroked his knee. He looked down to see Keinruf attaching himself to his leg. The little marten's eyes were red and his face was grave.

Seth resisted the urge to kick him away. What did the brat know of death? Of pain?

_"Learn to obey orders, Lieutenant. I told you to go back and take care of your son. You're all he's got left, and you're bloody well-"_

Seth melted. His legs sagging as he crumpled to the floor, head hanging. His bedraggled tail curling around his leg as he sat. Keinruf crawled into his lap and touched his face. Seth winced.

"Seth..."

_Dear Sadie_

"Now that little argument's settled," Gloria said, glaring at both of them, "I ken it be best if ye fine lads step off, each from the other, for a wee time."

"I'm not a kit," Seth snapped.

"Oh?" She raised an eyebrow. "Ye wouldn't fool a mother duck, the way yer acting."

_If I die, I need you to know I love you. No matter what happens, I love you._

"_He_," Seth pointed an accusing paw at Pip, "killed her!"

The bird didn't reply, this time, but lay panting, gaze kept aside.

"The way I reckon, _she_ killed herself," Gloria said coolly. "Lying, brainless, cursed-"

"Ms. Gloria," Wazzock injected, "the dead make exceptionally poor targets for cruel words. Hearing gone and all that."

The stoat blinked at the rat, looked away, and scowled. "Anyway. Mind yer kit, Lord Devonshire, and be quiet. I'm trying t'think."

Keinruf nuzzled his head against Seth's chest, and the marten felt two little arms trying to wrap around his middle in an awkward hug.

_"Devonshire, you've got an arrow sticking out of your ear."_

Slowly, Seth let his own arms encircle his son.

_Wait for me, Sadie. Wait for me._


	80. Dirge for a Soldier

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 79. Dirge for a Soldier  
**

_by Pip  
_

_Close her eyes, her work is done  
What to her be friend, or foebeast,  
Rise of moon, or set of sun  
Kiss of the spring, or autumn's bounty harvest?  
Lay her low, lay her low  
In the clover or the snow  
What cares she? She cannot know.  
Lay her low. Lay her low_

Pip had put up perfunctory complaints when he was sent to his time out, but the bird's posture belied his relief. It took very little time for him to put distance between himself and the grisly sight of Steep.

The bird stopped when he reached the Kneenibbler room. Here, the ceiling was tall and drafty – the air brought in the promise of the outside world, still. The water took on a gentle, musical tone. It lapped at the shore like a paw running along the skin of a drum. He sat, and the cool stone sent a small shiver through his body as he roosted. Pip tucked his head under one wing, as if he was going to sleep.

His eyes weren't shut, however. He was focusing on keeping his breaths steady. He could feel, creeping up his chest, the first sob.

He clamped his beak and exhaled, hard. It was corralled back. But they began to build, like levee-held waters, until finally they crested.

_Plip. Plop._

The plover shook his head once and pecked the ground. The sound ricocheted back at him, like the rapport from before. It brought a squawk of alarm to his beak, then a shudder to his body of not so distant memories.

_ Fold her in the South's colors.  
Roll the drum and fire the volley  
What to her are all our wars?  
What but death, this mocking folly?  
Lay her low, lay her low  
In the clover or the snow  
What cares she? She cannot know.  
Lay her low. Lay her low_

The bird's small chest puffed as he brought his breathing back under control. The water beckoned, inviting a chance to cleanse his claw. The cost of dipping it in almost seemed worth it to the plover.

Pip's eyes darted about the room for something, anything to use. Anything to give back to her... As he turned his head about, he felt a now-familiar weight shift on his neck: the goggles.

Pip dipped his beak and felt them slide off, rubbing his feathers the wrong way. He lifted the eyewear in his beak and set it before him. Using the tip of a claw he scratched into the glass.

He lifted them in his beak, then jerked his head and opened his mouth. The goggles flew in a gentle arc before flopping noisily on the surface. Almost as soon as they hit, they were snagged up by a thrashing fish.

As the water stilled, Pip began to sing, his voice raspy, yet unwavering.

"Leave her to Fate's e'er-judging claws  
Trust her soul to find its own way  
Mortal love obeys our mortal laws  
So we're left to only weep and say  
Lay her low, lay her low  
In the clover or the snow  
What cares she? She cannot know.  
Lay her low. Lay her low."

His eulogy sung, Maplefeathers the plover, _Always Pip to her_, dipped a low bow, then rose and turned his back on the water. He moved back to the group at a shuffling pace, feet scarcely leaving the floor.

Behind him, the goggles resurfaced, deemed unfit for consumption.

_P. S._

_Friend._

(Author's note: Poem is based off of a Civil War poem by G.H. Boker.)


	81. Linger a Little Longer

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 80. Linger a Little Longer  
**

_by Gloria  
_

_"What kind of mother is that?"_

Gloria turned away from Priscilla Steep's corpse, away from Seth and Keinruf as they embraced, and scowled at the wall. She'd heard such words little more than a year ago from another young mustelid, her eyes and heart afire for Pylaris.

_"What kind of a mum are ye?" IceRain demanded, baring her teeth, dark blue eyes – Regi's eyes – glaring with the fierceness of a wildcat. "Ye make us jump through yer hoops and dance t'the tune ye play. Ye force us t'go this way or that, but ye don't own us! Pylaris can do whatever he wants! If he wants t'send letters t'a lass in the South, why not? When did Voss die and make _you_ Emperor, Mum?"_

Gloria matched her daughter, snarl for snarl, shoving her face so close she could smell the stink of grog on IceRain's whiskers. "Don't ye dare back-talk me, ye likkle ingrate! I raised the lot of ye, got ye jobs in the ministries, and even Kreehold_." She spat, the word so distasteful on her tongue. "Pylaris lives under this roof, as d'ye, lassie. Ye'll obey me 'til the lot of ye are old enough t'mind yer own expenses! Hmph! Ye don't see Deephart whinging about the rules."_

"That's because he's never home," the stoatmaid cried, throwing up her paws. "And why d'ye think that is? It's because of you_, ye over-bearing, sadistic, soci-"_

Gloria's fist swung out, knocking IceRain back and down. "Ye'll not talk t'me like that, ye street-sliding hussy!"

"Badger-snouted hag!"

Before the she could bring her booted paw down on IceRain's stomach, the young stoatmaid rolled out of the way and came up on her footpaws, drawing her saber in the process. "It's that, then?" Gloria sneered. "Think ye can best the Captain of the Guard, lassie?"

"I know_ I can best _you_," the impudent lass rejoined._

"Hah! Well, then, show yer mummy just what yer-" The elder stoat stopped. She had been pointing her left paw at IceRain for effect and quite suddenly, it was no longer attached to her body. Both stoats looked down to see the appendage twitching erratically on the ground.

"I didn't..." IceRain began, eyes going wide.

What she didn't, Gloria never determined. Before her daughter could finish, Gloria had ripped the sword from her own scabbard and stabbed it into IceRain's neck. She withdrew, screaming, and continued to hack at the corpse until Regi burst in and managed to wrestle her to the ground.

"She cut off m'paw!" Gloria screamed. "The wench_ cut off m'paw!"_

"Why don't I just take this and set it aside, eh?" Gloria blinked, noticing that Wazzock had sidled up beside her. He carefully lifted the pawheld dragon – that had been their name on the diagram – up and away. The Captain of the Guard didn't resist.

"That was a rather unfortunate turn of events," the rat intoned.

"She lied."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Gloria?"

"I loved Pylaris more," she growled low. "I loved him more than she could ever understand. I loved all m'kits. They-they couldn't even understand. I was a good mother... Wasn't I?" The stoat turned to him and grasped the front of his coat. "I tried t'raise 'em right. I taught 'em loyalty and respect and honor! I taught 'em, but they didn't listen. I was a good mother, right?"

"Ah, I'm not certain. I've never been a good mother myself, so I'm afraid I don't have an adequate basis for comparison of such-"

"Just answer me, Wazzock," she pleaded. She knew it was pathetic – almost as pathetic as Priscilla's attempted suicide – but she had to hear it from him.

The Captain of the _Stormchaser_ looked away, then back again, his eyes distant. "I think... I think maybe your parents made some mistakes with you, Ms. Gloria." Another glance away, this time toward the martens - Pip had wandered away. "And Mr. Regi's parents made some mistakes with him. It's – well, it's hard to be a good parent when you don't have a good example to follow. Not to say your parents were terrible, we all have..." Wazzock stopped. He chewed on his claw, then continued, "My mum was a solid beast - full of good sense, always a smile on her maw, ruffled my ears at the right times, whacked me on the tail at the right times too. My pa was... I suppose they both made mistakes, but I can't deny they made me the beast I am all the same. Your parents did that for you. And you did that for your kits. I reckon, somewhere along the way, you made some mistakes. Everybeast does. But I know you can be better, Ms. Gloria. Don't lose faith in that."

She finally released him. "I'm not a coward, either."

"Not at all... Though, I dare say you're getting a bit whingy these days."

Gloria cuffed Wazzock's ear. "Ye can talk."

"Indeed. And that's much better," he approved. Gloria smirked. It wasn't settled, and neither creature could say that the world had ceased to be cruel, unusual, or funny – often all three at the same time – but it felt right in that one moment.

Priscilla Steep was dead. They all mourned her passing in one fashion or another, but the world moved on. A scritching scratch of talons announced Pip's return and, exchanging nods, Gloria and Wazzock turned back to the others.


	82. Gone Fishing

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 81. Gone Fishing  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

_One has to wonder about death at times. I mean, beasts go their whole lives avoiding both the topic and the entity itself. Death is mysterious because as much as you know about it, the more you feel you don't know anything about it. Death is everything and yet completely foreign, just out of reach, waiting for just the right moment to reveal its truth._

I suppose this is an odd thing to note in this Captain's Log but there's a quite dead herring on the dinner plate, and it keeps giving the most unsettling stare. I knew there was a reason I preferred fish in stick form.

- - -

Wazzock dug through the debris at the edge of the room, thinking about the Stormchaser. The longer he stayed away from the wooden sailing maiden of the seas, the longer he believed that neither he nor his crew would ever encounter her again. He didn't like to believe it, but slowly, the storm about him eroded those hopes away.

He found what he needed and bunched it up in his paws. He came back to where the mangled weasel's body lay. He paused.

"Do you think she knew how much some beasts cared about her? I mean, I never knew the lass that well. Just a few nips round the twist. Just, the way she went. How could a beast think this was the only way?"

Silence. Though, in a way, Wazzock accepted this as the only possible answer.

"Seemed like a bombastic lass," he added.

"You have no idea." Pip sighed.

"Well, let us hope she's happy. Pip, if you would please help me?" He unfurled the tarp in his paws, "Need to leave her in a respectable dispose until we can arrange something further."

"We're just leaving her?" Seth asked.

Wazzock closed his eyes. "There is no time for anything further than this bare respect. We need to move forth."

"But…"

"I know. I have lost many friends during the course of this blasted war and I bloody well am going to go forth, because if I do nothing, I will get to the stage where I take the route of this poor beast. The tale must continue, dear friends, and we are the only creatures left to carry onward. There are dark circumstances about us and grim, open way. We need to band together and take on the darkness for the sake of all that…"

"Wazzy... _please_ tell me yer not quoting the entire speech from that horrible play last spring."

"I thought the Mysterious Mr. Lagtail was an inspirational story for the ages."

"If by 'inspirational,' ye mean it inspired many a wee beastie t'attempt murder on the playwright."

Wazzock opened his mouth in protest, then appeared to reconsider. He and Pip pulled the tarp over Steep's body, but just before they covered her face, Wazzock stopped and stared.

"What is it?" Pip said.

"Is…oh, never mind. Just a red worm burrowing out of her eye socket. Sorta blended in with the blood and all."

"She had..." Pip closed his eyes a moment. "That would explain a lot. Fates, Captain..."

They pulled the tarp the rest of the way and let it settle, leaving the mangled form a vague mound of a memory.

"What now?"

Wazzock didn't notice who said the words. As he considered, he wondered if it was just all their minds speaking at once in one voice - speaking from the ether.

It turned out, it was Urie.

The voice called beyond the powder room, presumable to where Urie still could not get through the door. "Hello? I went to check out the other doors. Those flying things in that one room were not fish, but they were tasty. I just heard that loud noise and smelt that strange smell. What now? We going to find fish soon?"

Fish.

"Yes. Fish," Wazzock murmured. "Beasts, take one of these pawheld dragons each. We need to find the Ministers. I believe we need to 'fish' for some answers."

"Erm... what?" Seth said, "You honestly think we're going to go up with these things and talk to the beasts responsible for..." He made a face, looked at the mound, and then quickly picked up one of the pawheld dragons. "Absolutely. Keinruf, put that down now!" He stepped on the marten kit's tail and brought him up short of grasping a dragon of his own.

Gloria followed suit. "We're all stark raving mad," she muttered, carefully positioning the dragon in her belt. "But, seems t'me, every other beastie is too. Who'm I t'argue?"

"What about me?"

"Use the beak and talons your mum gave you, Pip. I've seen your species fight in a right frenzy with them before. Well, it was a seagull and its reflection, mind you, but the point stands. Anyway, this should just be a nice casual chat. Just to see what the Ministers have to say. Nothing violent in the least-"

Gloria snorted loudly.

"-and anyway, my Cy is watching over them."

"Which means they're all dead b'now," Gloria supposed.

"Of course not. Lightly maimed at the most."

"Most unconscious and a few broken tails."

"Something will be on fire. Tea's on you if I'm correct."

"No teatime for a month if I'm right."

"Agreed."

Wazzock and Gloria shook paws.

"Now, we're off. Urie is waiting for his fish."


	83. Royal Rumble

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 82. Royal Rumber (With a Few Commoners, as Well)  
**

_by Pleasantrie, Gloria, Wazzock  
_

(As mentioned in the subtitle, this post was a product of all the writers' minds. Because of my position, I was chosen to be the messenger of this post. So don't blame or credit me. Well, not more than the rest of them.)

~~~~~

The quartet made their way out of the powder room and back into the stone chamber, Wazzock stopping to grab up Emperor's Voss' paw. The rat wrapped it in some newspapers he pulled from his coat, before stuffing the lot back in. Urie, true to his word, had vacated the secret passageway, through which the Southerners had gained entrance.

"It leads back to this room with a pool," Seth explained briefly when Gloria paused to critically examine the entrance. "It was rather strange... We were making toward this one door, then another way opened up all of the sudden."

"Probably when we opened the last door to here," Pip muttered. "Vermin. Figures."

"Says the murderer," Seth growled.

"How many times do I have to tell-"

"Stow it, ye clods." Gloria cut Pip off before he could finish.

"It's rather nice for the return trip, though," Wazzock pointed out. "Convenient and all that, so we don't have to visit those rather unpleasant winged fellows again. No offense, Pip. You're a fine, feathery-winged fellow. Something about leather wings, though... Well, to be quite honest, I believe it's leather in general. All these young chaps and chappesses you see running about with too much leather on are quite the delinquents, as I understand it."

"Leather doesn't make a beastie a delinquent." Gloria snorted.

"Ah, well, I suppose you _would_ say something like that, Ms. Gloria. Your tastes and all..."

"_What_?" Pip and Seth demanded in unison.

"Her boots are leather," Wazzock supplied innocently. "Didn't you notice?"

Gloria whacked Wazzock's head as she stalked by him into the passage.

"What was that for, Ms. Gloria?"

"The Censors."

"Isn't that the cult that follows beasts around, rings bells whenever anybeast swears or suggests something that might mean something else, and then yells 'blasphemy' whenever anything from over the Western Sea is discussed?"

"Aye. That lot."

"I wouldn't think you'd ever join such a group," Wazzock said, blinking.

"I wouldn't. But I'm a firm believer in knocking ye over the head. Any excuse, ye ken?"

"Fair enough. Be careful, though. They might tar your boots unexpectedly one day. Oh, never mind. I guess I'll warn them against it unless they want to lose their tails."

"Well, if yer going t'take the fun out of it..."

They scampered up the corridor and back into the ballroom, where Switch and Soulhound were waiting, playing cards while Major Darcy continued to snore away beneath his sheet. A military beast, it was something of a surprise that the rat had yet to waken, but it was convenient for their own purposes that he should remain unawares.

"Pellentesque vitae velit nunc?" Switch queried, standing up.

"Emperor died," Wazzock admitted.

"Found weapons that blow beasties faces off," Gloria said.

"Encountered flying mice that drink blood," Pip added.

"Oh, and we're helping out the Imperium temporarily because most of our leadership is in the rubbish bin on both sides," Seth finished.

"Fringilla dui."

"Ye c'n say that again," Soulhound agreed.

"They didn't even mention the wearet, and that's my favorite part," Urie grumbled, trundling into the ballroom and giving Switch and Soulhound a start.

"Oh, no worries, chaps." Wazzock raised a paw to calm the creatures. "Urie's a friend."

"Now, then, we need ye three," Gloria began, using a sweeping gesture that encompassed Urie, Switch, and Soulhound, "t'see how fare the fine beasties at the palace gates. We don't need the Southies breathing down our necks while we're on about more important business. We're going t'the library t'finish this once and for all."

"Ellus nulla dignissim justo," Switch murmured to Wazzock. "Eget egestas urna nibh eu purus."

"Yes. I'll keep out of the way when she gets in a blood lust," Wazzock promised.

They split up on their respective missions.

Gloria, Pip, Wazzock, Seth and Keinruf carried forth through the secret passage out of the ballroom, peeking around every corner, waiting for an ambush at any time. The thin thread of their alliance was frayed as it was.

"So... how do we know that if we come across any group of fellow soldiers that we're not going to, pardon the expression, rat out the others?" Pip asked.

"I was wondering the same thing myself. Can't quite suppress the rattiness, though. As in nibbling things, not as in betraying," Wazzock stated.

"How about I kill ye both and save us the trouble?" Gloria growled. "Let just find those malingering ministers."

"I smell smoke," Seth said. Keinruf coughed.

Wazzock pointed at a set of double doors - smoke slithering out between the cracks. "Isn't that the library?"

"...Aye."

"Does that mean you'll buy tea?"

Gloria strode up to the doors and kicked them open, sending smoke into the hall. Squinting, putting a paw over her mouth, she walked into the plume. The rest followed. Beyond the smoke and a few piles of burning books, the rat lieutenant, Cynthia Pike, stood, picking her teeth with a knife. The place looked more like a battleground than a library – tables overturned to form fortifications, books piled up into walls, wood nailed over the windows.

The stoat stalked over to Cynthia and stared down her snout at the shorter female. Cynthia finished picking her teeth and raised a brow. "I assume you are here to relieve me, _Captain_?"

"What in Vulpuz's name is going on here?"

"The library's on fire. That's rather obvious."

"Why?"

"Aren't libraries made to be set on fire?" The lady rat shrugged. "All that paper and wood..."

"She has a point, Rusty," Wazzock piped up.

"Ah. Don't get all twitchy-whiskered, Captain Gloria. I kept a paw on the situation. Some missiles were sent through the windows, some Southern beasts tried storming the room, and I believe I'm close to killing the ministers. I will give a detailed description in the full report."

"Very well, Lieutenant. Go guard the door. We'll mind this matter."

"Have fun, Captain." She saluted and walked toward the door, but paused at Wazzock. "Dare I ask about the metal sticks?"

"Pawheld dragons."

She gave a quick glance at the thing and then turned her focus back Wazzock. "I wouldn't have expected anything less." She stoked his whiskers and then went out, closing the doors behind her. Wazzock stared at her swaying tail the whole way.

Pip glanced between the two, a bemused expression on his beak. "The missus?"

"Mmm..." Wazzock's gaze was still fixated on the door. One of his paws came up and began smoothing his whiskers.

"Wazzy!" Gloria snapped her claws in front of the rat. "It's not the time for that."

Wazzock shook his head, then gave a lopsided grin. "On the contrary, Rusty, when the blood is already pumping from-"

"I think I'm going to be sick..." Seth commented. He glanced over at one of the bookshelves and scowled. "Anybeast else think we should bar the door?"

Wazzock shrugged. "I'm fairly certain Cy could take care of any stragglers."

"In that case..." Seth lifted his son amid a flurry of protests, cracked the door, and shoved the kit through.

"Oy!" Came an objection from the other side.

"Company!" Seth's explanation was clipped. "There. Now let's take care of this."

"Traitor tartar, anyone?"

"That was awful, Captain Pike."

"Please, Pip. It's Wazzock."

"Both of ye-" Gloria hissed, wagging a hook in their direction. She cleared her throat. "Ahem... m'Lords and Lady?"

No reply.

Wazzock tried. "Ministers?"

Still nothing.

Pip shrugged. "I don't suppose they _want_ to know what happened in the weapon room, then."

A villainous snout popped out behind a dictionary stand. "Captain Ruston!" Baltsar's voice was an imperious squeak. "I dem --"

An interruption from behind stopped the weasel.

"That is, _we_ demand a full report. We -- what are those in your paws?"

Pip leaned over and whispered in Wazzock's ear. "You sure about this?"

"That we got the formula right this time? As sure as a bran-stuffed badger."

Pip hopped forward, taking a deep breath. "We'll tell you what we found out, as long as Lady Akilina moves behind that scribing desk over there. We heard some distressing news about her from the Emperor."

A confab conspirator conference was called.

"Ridiculouz!"

"We'll clue you -"

"He'z not even from -"

"Later, Akilina -"

"Do what you're -"

"Fine, bird! She's going over - I _said_ you're going - but know that we've got you outnumbered! If you try any -"

As Akilina's agitated ambling brought her to the desk, Pip called out, "Wazzock!"

The three officers opened fire.

The bookshelf exploded in a storm of splinters, smoking boards, and flaming books. Screams from all of the ministers, Akilina's most prominent as she dove beneath the scribing desk. With a groan of misery at the mistreatment, the bookshelf collapsed, sending up more smoke and ash, and temporarily blinding all of the occupants of the library.

"Pip!" Seth shouted. "Do something! You're like a squawking windmill. Do some- _Ow_!"

"Oh, shut up, Devonshire!" But a moment later, a breeze started and before long, the smoke was streaming toward the holes in the windows.

The quartet stared ahead, Wazzock, Seth, and Gloria having dropped their used dragons in favor of their customary weapons. The flames still lit a merry blaze around the room, but now they improved rather than obscured the vision. Ministers Blithe Baltsar, Beandish Arnold, Iskarot Arbach, and Brewtus – War, Niceties, Innovations, and Commerce, respectively – all stood, their burnt, bloody faces shifting between awe and fury. Akilina rose shakily from her hiding place and looked between the groups. She flicked out her tongue and coughed.

"Very poor sport to lie, old chaps," Arnold growled, smearing soot across his snout as he pawed at a splinter lodged there. "Would expect it of some Southerners, rightly so, but our own turning on us? What's the meaning of this, Gloria? Regi certainly wouldn't approve."

"Shut it, ye brainless dandy!" the stoat growled, hook slashing the air. "We know ye were helping Voss and Malachite plan this whole war. Yer all traitors t'the Imperium, and now it's time t'meet-"

"Oh, _please_ don't, Ms. Gloria."

"What?"

"Ugh!" Seth shook his head. "You were about to say something horridly cliché."

"It would have been terrible," Pip agreed.

The Captain of the Guard stared at the other three, then harrumphed. "Fine! Let's see ye lot do better."

"As I grow ever older and wearier of your inane babbling," Baltsar began, "I wonder why I let you fools start talking at all. Beandish, Iskarot, Brewtus, at arms! Let's silence these little pests once and for all, find Voss, and finally get hold of that blasted weapon so we can end this."

"Slight hitch there," Wazzock explained as the weasel, ferret, fox, and rat drew their respective weapons. "Voss is dead."

"_What_?" It was Akilina who had spoken this time.

Wazzock pulled the newspaper-wrapped parcel from his coat, unwrapped it, and held up the late-Emperor Voss' paw. "Look. It twitches when I poke it right at the stub. Ooo! Sorry, that was a slightly rude gesture. Guess it still has a bit of his soul stuck in it."

The ministers gaped.

"So... think we could discuss this over tea?"

"Wazzock!"

"Sorry, Ms. Gloria. I really think that it should always be an available opt…" A pike entered the floor between Wazzock's legs with a thwock. He looked down at it and then at the ministers. "I appreciate the irony, Colonel Arbach, but that was completely uncalled for. How do you answer to your crimes against the Imperium?"

"Let us make a deal," Baltsar growled. "We'll answer over your dead bodies and act like this inconvenience never happened."

"I see. In that case, I believe it's time to... what would be a good term, Pip?"

"'Kick some tail' might be a nice touch."

"Ah, smashing phrase! Gives me a nice idea." He spun the club in his paw with a flourish, pointing it at the ministers. "Time to kick some MinoTails, mateys."

"Stoats wae haeeeee!" Gloria shouted as they charged, the battle cry of one of the greatest MinoWars the Imperium had known, Pylaris M. Cotsifas, rising to her lips. Three sets of weapons locked while Pip took to the air, his talons raking across Iskarot Arbach's head.

Gloria found herself snout-to-snout with Blithe Baltsar, while Wazzock matched his club against Brewtus' mace, and Seth his sword against Arnold's saber.

"It was all going to be so simple," Baltsar growled, shoving the Captain of the Guard back and trying to skewer her on the tip of his rapier. "You just needed to die. Really, with as little sense as you have in you, Gloria, I thought that would be a simple task. But you've the luck of Vulpuz himself, you bloody wench!" She used her hook to slap the blade away and brought her sword up in a slice meant to disembowel the MinoWar. He managed to dodge, though, skipping back.

"Sorry t'disappoint m'Lord," Gloria rejoined, advancing on the weasel. "But it's dead rude t'be pawing off the credit t'Vulpuz." She swung, and he ducked under the blow, dashing forward and slicing her arm as he tried to get behind her. "Argh!" The stoat nearly bit her tongue as she spun around, hook coming up to the new wound.

"How many fights have you been in the past two days?" Baltsar wondered with a smirk. "Three? Four? A half dozen? All those wounds and bruises must be catching up to you, Captain. You couldn't hope to defeat me on a fair-weather day. What makes-"

He shut up and rolled out of the way to avoid Pip's searching talons. The bird dove by with a screech, pulling up short to avoid smacking into a bookcase.

"It's not Vulpuz on our side, sir," the plover put in as he clung to the shelves, regaining his bearings in the mêlée. "Not mine, anyway." He took off again, narrowly avoiding the book that Colonel Arbach chucked at him. The fox had foregone retrieval of his pike in favor of lobbing objects at Pip. Apparently, having his ears nearly ripped off didn't do much for what little sense remained in the MinoInn.

"Get down here you bloody scaled monster!" Iskarot screamed. "I'm going to pluck your feathers one by one, then stitch them back on... in the wrong order! How dare you! My ears. Oh, my precious ears!"

"Not much incentive to come down," the plover called back. As the fox was wiping the blood from his eyes, Pip took a moment to scan the library. Through the haze of smoke, he could see Wazzock had locked his club with the MinoComm's mace and was asking about the health of the stock market and which companies Brewtus would recommend for investments.

"I have an egg on the way, you see," the rat captain explained as the minister snarled back, inarticulate.

Seth was busy trading insults and blows with the MinoNice. The elder ferret danced around the marten's blade, but did not seem keen on taking the offensive himself. Gloria was back to testing her mettle against the best swordsbeast in the Imperium. Akilina had crawled out from under the scribing desk and was creeping toward the door, her reptilian eyes wide with disbelief and terror.

_Wazzock needs my help first,_ he decided after a moment's indecision, angling his flight path toward the rodents. Before he could bear down on Brewtus' head, though, a book smashing into his beak, knocking him of course and into a bookcase. With a squawk of dismay, the plover tumbled to the ground, some frantic flapping the only reason he managed to stay upright.

"Gotcha!" Iskarot cackled. Pip blinked hard trying to clear his doubled vision, but two foxes continued to advance on him...

Until two Seths beheaded them with enraged snarls. "And that's for Sadie, you 'Gates spawned Hellhound! I had to leave her because of your stupid, pointless war!"

"S-Seth?" Pip managed. The world was coming into focus.

"Don't think I did that for you, Pip," the marten preempted the bird's next question.

"But what about the ferret?"

"I knocked him-"

"Seth, duck!" The plover launched himself forward, beak clacking and talons ready as he smashed into Beandish Arnold and began pecking at the ferret's head, face, neck – anywhere he could reach. The mustelid writhed beneath him, screeching, but the bird kept at it until something cracked and his beak penetrated deeply into the MinoNice's skull.

He pulled back, panting, blood dripping from his face. "I just..."

The marten could only stare from his position on the floor. "You just," he agreed.

"Just a moment! Be right with you chaps," Wazzock called, tongue out of the side of his mouth as he fended off Brewtus' blows. The minister was getting desperate, confused and irritated by Wazzock's casual defense. "You're putting too much force into your blows, you see, MinoFin. You have to let the weight of the mace work for you." The mace smashed into the floor a whiskersbreadth from his footpaw as he sidestepped. "Getting better, sir."

"Do you ever shut up?"

"Certainly, Mr. Brewtus."

"And I am the MinoComm, as in Minister of Commerce, you dolt."

"I thought you were the Minister of Finance."

"Same difference."

"Did you ever consider that if you were the MinoFin, it would sound very much like you should be more into the fishing business? Then, it would make sense, since the main export of the Imperium is fish products of all-"

"Have you ever _tried_ shutting up?"

"Oh? Is that what you'd like, sir?"

The rat gave the mace another vicious swing, destroying a chair. "Yes! Let's give it a go."

"As you wish," Wazzock said, tipping his hat. He started to spin the club in a windmill motion and rushed Brewtus. The minister could only widen his eyes and backtrack trying to get the mace between him and the swirling blur of wood that accompanied the cold expression on Wazzock's face.

The MinoComm took one more violent upswing. Impact, and Wazzock's club went flying. Brewtus grinned, but the rat captain's grim glare remained, never wavering. Brewtus brought the mace back over his shoulder, setting himself up for the swing. Oh, how he would enjoy knocking the head off this rodent.

"Mr. Brewtus, you're a rat."

"Why, thank you," Brewtus acknowledged with a sneer.

"And you have tunnel vision."

The MinoComm paused.

He barely had time to register the flash of a blade from the corner of his vision. So, he had no way of knowing why said blade was coming at him, for he had not noticed the trajectory of Wazzock's club when it had been knocked away. He had missed the beautiful arc as sailed across the room, almost in slow motion as the dialogue between Gloria and Baltsar had been going like so, Baltsar's blade pressed against the stoat's neck:

"...And so ends the line of Kildares and Rustons in the Guard Captain's seat. Heh! All your heirs dead – half murdered by your own paw. A brother who would be lucky to take a mate, let alone raise a kit. And you, little Gloria, such a disappointment to your father. I'm sure he'll give you a proper thrashing when you meet up beyond Hellgates, though. Well, any last words, brat?"

"I _hated_ Da'," Gloria replied, blinking as this revelation dawned on her.

"Sorry?"

"I loved him, but... 'Gates! I hated him." She blinked again. Why had it taken her 35 years to determine that? "And I'm just like him... Ugh! When did that happen? Oh. And yer about t'die, sir."

Baltsar snorted. "And how do you figure that?"

"Weeell..."

The club cracking open the weasel's skull was the reason for the ellipsis. It was also the reason for Gloria shrugging off the corpse and running across the room, right to this moment, when Brewtus saw the flash of a blade. The rat was disemboweled before he could say a word.

"Thank you, Ms. Gloria."

"Likewise, Wazzy."

"That's all of them, then?" Seth coughed. "Because it's getting a bit close in here."

"Quite right. I believe Ms. Akilina was headed out-"

"They've broken through, Cap'n Ruston!" The door to the library burst open revealing a very harried Cider, followed by Cynthia, who was holding Keinruf and prodding at his wet nose. The kit growled, snapping at the offending claw, and she stalked over to Seth, shoving the little marten back into his father's arms. Cider continued in the meanwhile, "The Southerners have breached the palace gates!"

"Ah! A perfect moment, then," Wazzock said, pointing his claw dynamically at the doors. "Once more unto the breach, dear friends!"

Surprisingly, it was Seth who beat everybeast to smacking the rat captain over the head. "Stop stealing lines from plays. Honestly! You're as bad as her and clichés." He jerked a claw at Gloria.

"Cap'n," Cider insisted, "yer orders?"

"Well, ye didn't follow the first set," she said, snorting.

"Perhaps we could discuss this in a more constructive manner," Pip suggested.

"Fine," Gloria acquiesced. "Cider, shut up and let us think."

"_Very_ constructive, Captain Ruston."

"Thank ye."


	84. Waking the Dragon

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 83. Waking the Dragon  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

Wazzock placed the club back on his belt. He looked about at the room. A strange stillness had come over the scene. With the death of the ministers, he could almost feel the lies beginning to roll back, revealing the truths, all glistening in the sun. This didn't necessarily make Wazzock feel any better. Part of him would have said he wasn't made for this business, but in truth, he knew he _was_ made for this business. As much as he wanted to escape, he couldn't, because he would always be an Imperium beast, from his whiskers down to the tip of his tail.

For the first time in a long while, he found this didn't bother him.

"So what do we do? The floodgates are open and there is a torrent of Southern Army creatures flowing through the corridors at this moment, killing anybeast in their path. This war is out of paw with no way to stop it…"

Wazzock came back to the information at paw.

"Could we try a peace agreement?" Pip ventured.

"How?" Seth asked. "The bloodlust is downright chewable at this point. This is it: A down and out brawl we're not going to escape from."

"Aye, the beasts out there are more in a rage than when the Bilge got busted for serving water. Which, since it's the Bilge, only has a slightly lower alcoholic content than actual alcohol, but it caused quite the stir among those who were still conscious when it was discovered. The point is, those beasts are motivated by the smell of victory," Wazzock confirmed.

"Aye," Gloria agreed. "That's not a lot t'be reasoned with."

"Anyone else realize that Ms. Akilina is the acting-Empress at this point?"

"Don't any of you look at me," the lizard hissed. "I have no idea what iz going on here. I'm going to let you beazt untangle the bloody mezz _you_ made."

"Fates be moved, yer Highness!" Gloria said with the effect of a frosted dagger. "Yer sense of leadership is _truly_ enlightening."

"Don't growl at me! You are effectively back in charge, Captain Ruzton."

"No."

If the lizard had had a brow, she would have raised one.

"Excuze me?"

"It'll be Cap'n Pike and me t'gether."

"Really? D'awww…"

"Don't be saying anything t'make me regret this, Wazzy. Ye've been a thorn in m'side since we were bairns. But somehow..." Gloria shook her head. "Somehow ye make things work. All yer mad cap ideas... Hmph! I s'pose I can see why Lord Baltsar made ye Cap'n of the _Stormchaser_... I think I just threw up in m'mouth."

"Ah, I always wondered what that would feel like… Thank you, Ms. Gloria." And with that, one of Wazzock's left whiskers was yanked out.

"Sorry to interrupt this heartfelt moment, but what are the details of that powder?"

They all turned to Cynthia Pike.

"Yes," the rat lady continued. "I heard mention of that powder. You said it was explosive. How explosive exactly?"

Wazzock tugged at his right whiskers. "I'd say a pawful would blow the paw and attached arm off, roughly. Well, unless you'd count the hanging flesh… in which account…."

"And where is this located in the palace?"

"A few hundred paws south from under the Basement Ballroom – give or take a rat-tail."

"And about how big is this room?'

Wazzock counted quickly on his paw digits. "Around forty paws in diameter."

Cy got down on her haunches and started drawing in the sizable puddle of blood left by the MinoInn. "Here is the palace layout. If you are correct, the room is in the center of the foundation. Remember how we met, Wazzock?"

"Ah, it was a charming day of exploring under the Slups for a proper fishing spot. In the middle of the gloom, I found you, a diamond in the rough."

"Which is why I almost cut your head off when you started cooing at me."

"To be fair, I thought you were a seal."

"To be fair, you were good at defending yourself with that fishing pole."

"Need to. Seals like fish," Wazzock said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"You see, that was my first assignment in the Stoatorian Guard, and a certain stoat lieutenant was trying to be rid of me by setting me to settle some trouble in a building on the docks. Alone. With no backup. Against a gang of foxglove-addled weasels."

"I believe there was a fox or two. Though they may have been the dealers."

"Shush, Wazzy. The point is how I stopped them. Or rather, how Wazzy and I stopped them. I was trying to find a secret passage through the floor, and Wazzy noted that the foundations were rather weak. So, one board later and…"

"Ye were two marks shy of getting thrown out of the Guard for knocking that building into the blasted harbor, Lieutenant," Gloria finished. Then added, grudgingly, "Though... I have t'admit ye had a strange sort of... style."

"Why thank you Captain Gloria. So, did you see any foundations down there?"

"Now that you mention it, there were a series of pillars all around the room," Pip said. "Not really that many… I thought there would be more, but I guess they built the basement of this place after the rest. I'm certain the architect wouldn't approve of such deviations from his plans… a nest like that would fall in through the middle."

"So, what would happen if powder of such destruction as you claim were to be say… lit?" Cy wiped a paw across the bloody drawing.

Everybeast allowed themselves a reflective moment.

Then, they all stared at the smeared drawing of the palace.

"You want to collapze the entire palaze… Are you _inzane_?" Lady Akilina demanded. "I will not ztand for thiz madnezz."

Dead serious, Wazzock turned on the lizard. "Madness? This is the Vulpine Imperium, miss."

"Bringing down the palace?" Gloria pulled a face, shook her head, then nodded. "Rats in a trap of their own making." She glanced at Cynthia and Wazzock, but didn't apologize for the speciest slight. Instead she snapped about and demanded of Pip and Seth, "Southie representatives, what say ye?"

Pip rolled his eyes. "Pah! Why not?"

Keinruf made explosive motions with his paws and nodded vehemently.

"You have no say in the matter, you bloodthirsty ruffian," Seth growled, tucking the marten kit under his arm. "If this means we can be over with this rubbish, then yes. Sure."

"So… you could say we're gonna blow this non-fish stick stand?"

Cy and Gloria bopped Wazzock at the same time.

"So, will you be coming with us, Cy?" Wazzock inquired.

Cy patted him on his ratty snout. "That's why I have you, Wazzy."

"Well, then, lieutenant. You take Ms. Akilina and this little chap," he said, lifting Keinruf from Seth's paws and depositing the miniature marten into the MinoMis' claws, "and find any nobles and Imperium troops you can and get them out of here. Run across any Southern Army soldiers-"

"Tell them a dragon is going to emerge from the depths of Hellgates and bring the entire building down."

It was Pip's turn to be stared at.

"I've been around him too long!" the plover cried, pointing an accusing wing at Wazzock.

"I might just use it," Cy said with a smirk. "Come Akly, let's get this all underway. They have their dragon to unleash."

The thought of poking a dragon with a stick ran through Wazzock's mind as they made their way once more to the ballroom. It made him think back to the days upon the _Stormchaser_, stalking Soriss' sleeping form as he voiced a heroic monologue in his mind, imagining the cook to be the craggy form of a draconic monster sleeping on a pile of gold rather than potatoes sacks. Until Mister Allan came up and asked him what he was doing, and Wazzock had claimed he was inspecting things, which caused Mister Allen to roll his eyes. Then, Wazzock had decided to see what Krill was up to, and to try and get him over his fear of ladybeasts with a few tales about wobeasts… a clever metaphor he'd always thought… and…

"Are you crying?" Pip asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I care."

"I know."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." The bird patted a wing on Wazzy's back. "You're an interesting fellow, Captain Pike. Don't ever stop. All right?"

"Thank you."

"Thank you for never being tempted to eat me."

"I prefer fish. Birds are gamey."

"So are rats, I've heard."

"Really?"

"We'll talk after this is all over."

"Sounds good, Pip."

The bird and rat scampered after the three weasel family creatures who had just entered the ballroom door. They followed, only to be met snout and beak to the muzzles of two of the pawheld dragons from the powder room.

The dragons were being held by a not-quite-frazzled-looking Darcy, a crazy twitch causing his cheek to jerk irregularly.

"So you've finally returned to the scene of the crime, Captain Wazzock J. Pike and Captain Gloria Kildare-Ruston. Glad of you could grace us with your presence. General Lock and I are so happy to see you again. Do you have any idea the amount of _paperwork_ this entire mess is going to generate?"

"Major Darcy," Seth began, "this is highly unnecessary. We're all in this together and if you would let us past, we could-"

"Be quiet, Lieutenant Devonshire! I'm tired of dealing with you and your father. The amount of stress having you around caused the General... _Traitor_." He spat and leveled one of the dragons fully on the marten. He turned the other one on Pip. "That goes for both of you. And that's another stack of paperwork and my best quill lost in all this madness! Oh, and Cabin Bird Pleasantrie? General Lock should have eaten you for dinner that first time you got yourself captured. Would have made a nice appetizer and it would have put his mind at ease!"

"Now see here," Wazzock cut in before Pip could protest. "I am quite tired of hearing everybeast speak to this respectable plover in such a way. I'm tired of… Ooo, you're poking that dragon into my face rather roughly now."

"You're the only one with a club. The General's head was smashed in. How much do you think you could jabber without your jaw intact?"

"Hard to say. It would be hard to chew at least."

The gun clicked into a ready position. Gloria stepped forward but Darcy swung the other gun, aiming at her gut.

"Mr. Darcy, we really must get by."

"Why should I do anything you want?"

"I've been told I'm cute and that my face will sway the most hardened soul."

Darcy jabbed the gun closer.

"Ah, that never worked on Cy either."

"You killed General Lock, you absolutely ruined my record of perfect service to the beasts who command me, and you can just stand there making quips?"

"He's really not making quips," Gloria inserted. "That's just how he speaks. He elevates being a moron t'an art form."

"Mr. Darcy, will you please lower the dragon."

"Not until I blast the tongue out from your maw."

"I can relate."

"Not helping, Rusty. Please, Darcy. Please join us. We're going to end the war, or kill ourselves trying."

"I can help with that."

"Ah," Wazzock said holding up a claw for pause. "I can see that wasn't the best wording. But trust me, I know how you feel. I've lost too many friends over the course of this pointless war, and I know how much pain that causes. The sort that burns in the stomach – similar to that encountered when too many non-fish fishsticks are consumed and the grease begins to become combustible. You think there's nothing that can make you better, and you look for somebeast to blame. The creature I suppose I ought to have blamed blew her own face off, but that doesn't mean you need to help me on the way to that end. Killing us will not stop the pain, Darcy."

Darcy sniffed, the barrel wavered.

"Please," Wazzock whispered.

"I'm sorry. I'm disinclined to acquiesce to your request." Darcy pulled at the trigger.

A dark form dropped from above, right onto Darcy and the barrel spun to the side as it went off with a deafening bang.

Bright lights flashed before Wazzock's eyes and the world rang. He blinked. Urie was sitting on top of Darcy, looking expectantly at him, maw moving. Wazzock couldn't hear the words. Darcy was knocked senseless, the dragons being picked up by Seth and Gloria. He blinked again. Pip was waving his wings, pointing at something over Wazzock's left shoulder. He notices a warmth on his left ear. Pip moved his beak, but Wazzock couldn't hear over the ringing. He closed his eyes. He reached up and found significantly less left ear than he remembered being there. In fact, as he felt a sizable hole, and not the one for hearing. He thanked the Fates that it was not an extra hole in his head.

Sound started to clear up, in his right ear at least, in time to hear Urie saying, "...with proper wooden walls, I can climb on them and sneak up, and I like to leap on beasts unexpectedly. They make fun sounds. Can I leap on you, Wazzy? That was a loud sound..."

"Nice to see you again, Urie. Thanks."

"Can I eat this rat? The last one was a little gamey, but..."

Wazzock had to note the terrified squeak from Darcy was a little amusing in a strange way. "No. No, not yet. Just let the chap cool down for a bit. Give him a little hug."

"Ooo, I like hugs."

"I thought you would, Urie."

They walked past Urie, who tried to take hold of the wriggling rodent in his massive forelegs, and proceeded to the stairs.

"Yer an evil beastie at heart, aren't ye?" Gloria whispered into Wazzock's good ear.

"I have no idea what you mean. I have no way of knowing if wearet hugs are harmful to a beast's health due to the enthusiasm of wearets. That is completely beyond my scope of knowledge."

"Of course it is."

"I need to get something for this ear, I suppose, perhaps we'll find something in the dragon's lair? Or perhaps the bleeding will stop itself. Cy will think a war wound is dashing, wouldn't you say? Considering circumstances, I guess you'd think so, Mr. Seth."

"Say what?"

Wazzock promptly missed the marten's confusion, his mind spinning forward, "Let us wake up that dragon."


	85. Court of Miracles

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 84. The Court of Miracles  
**

_by Gloria  
_

"Can you imagine being so loyal to a beast that you go absolutely bonkers at his death?" Wazzock wondered aloud as they hurried through the first trap room – trodding over Ursula Ullyanov's remains to avoid the stakes – into the cavernous home of the Graycheeked Kneenibblers, before starting off down the secret passage to the powder store room. Gloria had come to think of the place as the Dragon's Den – dangerous, filled with mysteries, and home to a hoard of precious materials. It also happened to have weapons that shot fire from their ends.

_Pawheld dragons._ The MinoInn who had created them had chosen an apt name.

"I mean, I would die for my crew," the Captain of the _Stormchaser_ continued, "and I was rather put out by so many of them dying, but there comes a point when a chap has to put on a mustache and soldier forth. Lucky I have friends to remind me of that on the occasions I need it." Gloria had the distinct impression he was looking at her back, but she refused to turn around and acknowledge him. She had already assisted Wazzock in the murder of most of the upper echelons of the Imperium, lost a bet, and named him as a co-leader in their mad little rebellion. He would _not_ get that satisfaction.

"Put on a _what_?" Seth asked.

"He means 'stiff upper lip,'" Gloria translated with a sigh of longsuffering. "He thinks Regi's mustache makes him stoic."

"It's true, though!" Wazzock insisted. The stoat finally glanced back and saw the rat leaning in close to a very confused Pip.

He stage whispered, "I've seen him without the mustache – _completely_ different chap." Back to proper marching posture. "Still, though. Such devotion is quite rare to see. Either of you chaps so lucky – Or is it cursed? – to have a beast like that?"

"Captain Steep," Pip and Seth chimed in unison.

The marten drew in a breath to begin ranting at the plover, but Gloria preempted him. "Shut it, the lot of ye. We're nearly there."

They entered into the room with the stone table and proceeded immediately to the Dragon's Den. "So," the Captain of the Guard began, "d'we just drop a torch on one of these barrels and run?"

"I doubt that would be the most prudent alternative, Ms. Gloria," Wazzock said, stroking his chin and looking about.

"What about going outside and shooting in with a dragon?" Seth suggested.

"Like that's going to make a difference," Pip retorted. "'Oh, we shouldn't set light to the room full of death because it will blow up, but if we step just outside everything will be fluff and flowers.' Honestly, Devonshire, do you think a badger's length will make a difference? You saw what a little bit of powder did to the Captain. An entire _room_?"

"Well, at least I'm offering ideas!" the marten snapped. "All you seem to be capable of is making snide little comments."

"I don't see-"

"We need t'light it from outside," Gloria said, rubbing her hook against her cheek.

"Are you deaf?" Pip sighed. "We'd have to be practically outside the palace to light this stuff and be safe."

"Ach... Yer worse than a Gull, Mr. Pleasantrie. Don't ye ever shut up? I'm trying t'think." She glanced at the barrels of powder, then twitched her whiskers at some sacks that looked to hold more of the stuff.

"Could we perhaps roll out some barrels and create a chain reaction back to the room?" Wazzock tried.

"Same problem." The plover shook his head. "If there was some way to delay the explosion, then-"

"The powder," Gloria realized, smacking herself in the head. "Of course! The powder!"

"What are you on about now?" Seth asked.

"Ah!" Wazzock cried, his eyes widening. Then, with a grin, he added, "How very clever, Rusty! But will it work?"

"It should. The file mentioned it a bit in a round about way for the testing, I ken. And it's the only way, right? Ye reckon one of those bags should be enough."

"Hmm... just about. Maybe we should take another just in case."

"Aye, but a smaller one. We don't need-"

"Would one of you _please_ explain what you're talking about?"

The captains turned to look at the frustrated Southern soldier. Pip stood beside him looking just as perplexed.

"Yer not half thick," Gloria sneered. Really, you'd think a creature who claimed to be so clever would be a bit quicker on the uptake.

"Look!" Seth snarled, stalking toward her. "We don't have time for your games, and I'm about two weeks past caring about decorum. Tell us what you mean right now, or I'm going to start chopping off the rest of your limbs, you psychotic, old hag."

Gloria's eyes narrowed to slits, her jaw set, and her fist came up faster than the preening dandy could react. She connected with Seth's chin, and he staggered back.

"That's yer one warning, ye impudent brat," the stoat growled. "Call me that again, and it won't just be Prissy lying in a state down here."

Seth charged at her with a roar, but Pip and Wazzock intervened. The rat grabbed the marten's arms and the plover flared his wings at the stoat. "You certainly have a gift for diplomacy," he remarked, sarcasm hopping like a horde of escaped crickets from his beak.

"I'd eat ye if ye weren't useful, ye likkle wretch," she shot back, crossing her arms and glaring at him.

"Steady on, old chap!" Wazzock advised the marten behind Pip's feathered screen. "Ms. Gloria didn't mean anything by it. She just gets a mite touchy when it comes to her age, you see. Getting on a bit and-"

"Wazzy!" She tried to push past the plover, but he flitted to block her too quickly. Just as she was about to kick him, Wazzock called out.

"Why don't you clue them in, Ms. Gloria? I've my paws a bit full back here."

"Hmph!" It would be easier – and faster – to have the louts onboard. "The file mentioned summat about Colonel Arbach, the one b'fore Iskarot, testing the powder in the Slups. He was a loony for it, but he found out that standing s'close t'the stuff when yer lighting a barrel of it afire wasn't the brightest idea as ever came t'him. His later experiments, in his logs, mentioned 'laying the line' t'a larger quantity and cowering b'hind some rocks or wall or summat. We could do the same. Lay out a line with the powder t'the ballroom. Set light t'it, then run like it's Vulpuz himself after our tails."

Pip blinked and lowered his wings. Behind, Seth had stopped struggling and stood with Wazzock patting his shoulder.

"There, you see?" the rat asked, smiling. "I said it was clever."

--- --- ---

The captains hauled the bag of powder between them, a rip at one corner allowing a trail of black dust to form on the ground in their wake. Seth had another smaller bag slung over his shoulder. Gloria hoped this would work. If it didn't...

_It has t'work,_ she told herself. The Southern Army had been allowed to invade the palace for more than twenty minutes now. With Cynthia, Akilina, and Cider warning the Imperials to get out as fast as their footpaws would carry them, the green tidal wave should have made significant progress into the building. And that would be their undoing.

"What are you thinking?" Wazzock asked. "You look a bit serious."

"This is a serious situation, Wazzy."

"Fair point. But we've been in serious situations before and you've never made that face."

The stoat sighed. "We're about t'blow up the palace, Wazzy. The Emperor is dead. Most of the ministers are dead. I've just realized I hated m'da'. I'm working with Southies. Regi's off t'Fates know where. All the beasties I trusted are traitors. I'm bone tired from the half dozen fights I've seen in the last 48 hours. Aye, Wazzy. I'm a bit serious."

"Well, when you say it all like that it does sound a bit much," the rat commiserated. "Buck up, though! Think of all the wonderful things we'll have to discuss over tea!"

The stoat groaned and released the bag as they stepped out of the secret passage and moved into the fish cavern. It was light enough for one beast to drag now and she wanted to be certain the powder line remained unbroken –and get away from Wazzock.

"I was thinking peppermint tea," the Captain of the _Stormchaser_ continued, oblivious. "The holiday's past, but it's still..." Gloria tuned him out. It was easier when he was talking about normal things like tea. He was right though, in a strange way. These were stories to tell – all of it. If they managed to survive, to tell their story, it would be forgotten in a few months. At most, a year. The Emperor was the one, the only, the _forever_.

Who would Voss be after a new emperor took up his crown? Just a liar and a charlatan who was never really emperor. Not at all, thank you very much! The papers would crow for a bit, but eventually, the pages of outrage and rhetoric would end up as some decorative hat or the wrapping for fish and chips. The journalists would turn to the latest gossip. The palace would be rebuilt. And life in the Imperium would continue as it always did: wretchedly for the poor, but well enough for those well off. The system worked. Why? Only the Fates knew. Maybe it had something to do with the tea or the fish or the fact that the collective intelligence of the Imperium's residents averaged lower than a bucket of herring – the fish knew to flop away from the greedy paws that would eat them, at least.

"What do you mean she _died_?" Pip's question roused Gloria from her musings. The bird was still ahead with Seth, but he had cast a suspicious glance behind at Wazzock.

"Dropped like a sack of hammers from the crow's nest," the rat stated matter-of-factly. "I think it must have been the grog. Bit of a teetotaler myself, if you'll pardon the pun, but I rather think she must have been deathly allergic to the stuff by her reaction. Then again, it might have been the sack of hammers hitting her over head as she took a drink. I made sure to ban hammers in the crow's nest after that, mind you. I thought it was the grog, but you can never be too sure. Ah, poor Ms. Hrist. Really is a shame."

As he was chattering, picking his way across the trap-filled room that opened onto the welcoming rose and white marble of the ballroom, the rat's booted footpaw sunk into the floor. Something clicked and he froze.

"Oh, dear."

"Wazzy! Move!" Acting purely on instinct, Gloria lunged, shoving the rat forward, toward Seth and Pip. The Southerners whirled about as the Captain of the _Stormchaser_ smacked down to the floor between them.

_That was stupid,_ the stoat realized entirely too late as she teetered on the edge of the pit that had swallowed a section of floor behind her. _Why did I do that?_ For one fateful moment, as her arms pin-wheeled through the air, the captain thought she might be able to regain her balance. Then, the tile she was standing on gave way and she plunged... as far as the paws gripping her arms would allow.

Gloria hissed as Pip's talons dug into her left arm, but far preferred the pain – and the strained, grim determination on the plover's face – to whatever lay in the darkness below. Grimacing, she looked up and saw Seth had her other paw while Wazzock stared down at her, his face a mixture of concern and confusion.

"Pull me up, ye morons!" the Captain of the Guard commanded after another three seconds had passed with nobeast moving. She saw Seth and Pip exchange a look: 'Should we just drop her?' They glanced back down, and she met each pair of cold, foreign eyes. She meant nothing to these creatures. She had tortured the bird, cut the pretty prince's face, insulted and belittled both of them, slaughtered hundreds of their comrades, and was at least partially responsible for the death their _beloved_ captain.

Before they could decide, Wazzock made the choice for them. He fell to all fours, and hooked his paws under her armpits. Between all three, they pulled her up quickly and collapsed on the floor, Gloria with relief, the others for the exertion.

"Why would you _do_ something so foolish, Ms. Gloria?" Wazzock demanded. "You still owe me tea. Don't you dare think dying will get you out of it."

"I didn't mean to!" Gloria huffed, rising and gripping her arm to stem the trickle of blood that she could feel running beneath her coat. "It happened b'fore I could think on it proper."

"So, let me get this straight," Pip said, incredulous. "You're upset that you _saved_ Wazzock? What? Would you prefer him dead?"

She raised an eyebrow at the plover. Really, he was a stupid creature.

"Oh, that's ridiculous!" The bird snorted. "You might as well be married the way you act."

"I think Cy might object to that," Wazzock put in, standing up and helping Seth as he pondered. "But maybe not. Do you suppose Mr. Regi would? Anyway, how would the contracts work ou-"

"Shut it, both of ye!" Gloria snapped. "I'm not marrying ye, Wazzy. Yer ugly."

"Says the lady with a hook for a paw," Pip interjected with a smirk. Gloria glowered at him and found herself surprised by how long it took him to drop his gaze this time. The fight with the ministers had strengthened his backbone a bit. Still, he looked away.

_Once a spineless slug, allus a spineless slug at heart._

"But think of the cake, Ms. Gloria!" Wazzock was saying. "And the tea and party and-"

"Am I the only one concerned with moving forward?" Seth wondered aloud crossing his arms. "We still need to blow this place up... and besides," he said, sniffing haughtily, "the cake is a lie. All the weddings I've been to have had rubbish cakes, so you shouldn't get your hopes up over such nonsense."

"Oh! The powder!" the plover hopped over to the bag that Seth had dropped and used it to carefully run a line around the hole and out into the ballroom. Only Lock's corpse was there to greet them. Urie had carried Darcy away to Fates knew where.

"So, how does this work now?" Seth wondered. "We light it and just run?"

"I had a thought about that during my most recent near-death experience," Wazzock piped up. "Pip, you have wings."

"I thought we went over this the other night..."

"Yes, indeed," the rat agreed. "But it bears repeating. Makes you a fast chap, eh? Fastest out of the lot of us. We could run ahead, clear the way a bit and you'd catch us up in two flicks of a whisker."

"Can ye light a match, bird?" Gloria asked, sizing the plover up. She suspected from the tilt of his beak and the narrowing of his eyes that if he had lips, he'd be pursing them at the moment.

"Can I light -- I can write Lock's signature better than he can. I've made _Illuminated Texts_ befor-- Yes, I can light a bloody match."

Before she could put him in his place with a physical reminder of the tenuous nature of their alliance, Seth said, "Fine. It's all settled, then. Let's get on with it."

"Two ticks, though," Wazzock suggested holding up the appropriate number of claws. "First let's get that barricade down. It's not likely to do us much good anymore and it'll only slow this feathery chap down. And second, I rather think it might be a good idea to take a lookout together. Just to be sure we're not running into a mass of torment and toil before Pip lights up our line."

"Fair point, aye."

--- --- ---

Five minutes later, Gloria, Wazzock, Seth, and Pip hurried up the stairs from the basement ballroom. The three beasts with paws had their weapons drawn for the third time that day. The stoat wasn't certain what four battle-weary beasts could actually do against a gaggle of Southern soldiers, but they would cross that bridge if they reached it. In the meanwhile-

"You there! Devonshire! Pleasantrie!" The trio whirled to find a very fat weasel rolling up to them, his sword drawn, and a beleaguered wildcat shoving the contraption he was seated in along.

"General... Scott?"

"You were with that group, weren't you?" the weasel demanded. "Where is Captain Steep? I demand to know where my fiancée is right now."

_Fiancée?_ Gloria's eyes widened. _Just what the 'Gates was Prissy playing at?_ To moon after Pylaris while pledging herself to this tub of lard? Not only a pathetic idiot, but a lying strumpet, as well. _Typical._ The weasel had been royalty, after all.

"Em..." The marten pulled a face and looked back at them. Gloria shrugged.

"She's dead," the stoat stated bluntly.

"Ms. Gloria, that's a very poor way to deliver bad news," Wazzock admonished.

"Ah, right. She's dead, _General_." The stoat threw in a mock salute for effect.

"Rusty..."

"We don't have a lot of time t'play nice, Wazzy," the stoat pointed out. "General, I'm not terrible sorry about yer loss, now move aside, or we'll make ye."

"Lying little snake," he hissed, pointing his sword. "Priscilla can't die. I have an agreement with her father! No what have you done with her? I demand to know!"

Gloria pursed her lips. Well, they hadn't lit the line yet, and this rotund ignoramus offered such a tempting target...

"Have ye checked 'tween those rolls of fat on yer belly, sir? I ken a beastie could get lost in there."

"_Rargh_!"


	86. Blow This NonFish Fishstick Handcart

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 85. Let's (literally) Blow This Non-fish Fishstick Handcart  
**

_by Pip  
_

It was a lucky thing Wazzock knew how to talk beasts down... or at least confuse them enough so that they forgot what they were arguing about in the first place.

"Okay..." Pip said. "Now are we all settled?"

"Yes..."

"Swords put away?"

"Ye don't see it, aye?"

"Good."

Pip was between the general and the captain, wings held out to block the other's view. He turned to Scott and began to explain slowly. "General Scott. We -- that is Steep, Seth, and I -- found the Imperium's weapon."

"Ye foun--"

An elbow from Wazzock cut off the stoat's complaint. "That's right. _They_ found it."

"We found it, and Captain Steep commandeered it. Mind you, she didn't fill out form 934-XD, Sequestering Secret Munitions, but there wasn't a pen in sight. She could've used a feather, I suppose, but then there's the matter of ink, and while I always keep a few bottles, I never have a 9-series 'cause we haven't --"

"Pip!" Seth prodded the bird. "Get on with it." As Pip opened his beak, Seth interrupted. "Actually... don't get on with it."

The marten leaned down and pulled the bird level with him. In a hissing whisper he asked, "Why are we helping them, anyway, and not just handing them over to General Scott?"

"That fool? He was part of this plan from the beginning, I bet. And that means he sold his own fiancée down the river."

"Hmm..."

"Besides, it's so creepy, you know?"

The pair resurfaced, and Pip began to speak again.

"Where was Ah-- Gwawk!"

Seth pulled him back down.

"What?"

"I just wanted you to know that I still hate you, you walking set of drumsticks, and hope that my brat holds on just a little too tight one of these days, and chokes you to death."

Pip was silent for a moment. "Duly noted."

By this time, Scott's face had worked itself into an indignant puff -- the back-building complaints had finally reached a bursting point. "Look here, bird! I'll not have --"

"Ah, for Fates' sake!" Gloria cried out. "She offed herself with the weapon, Fat-For-Brains. Prob'ly b'cause she knew she'd have t'marry _you_."

"Ruston!" Pip's voice drowned out the enraged gurgles coming from Scott. "If you don't shut that flapping jaw this instant I'll turn this troupe around, so help me... I'll have Seth tie you to a barrel and you can tell us all in the afterlife how pretty it was when you were burned alive and the palace fell in on you!"

The whole room was silent at the outburst for a long minute. Then Scott spoke up. "Collapse the palace?"

"Yes, General. Collapse the palace." The bird suddenly got a small grin. "Think of it as... a consolation prize. True, you lost your bride, but imagine the prestige of being the beast that brought the Vulpine Imperium to its knees in the most memorable move ever made. A 'Scott' will no longer just be a type of doughroll, but also the name for the most brutal wartime maneuver since Second Mate Surebeast showed us all what a well-aimed fire arrow can do to dried crops."

"A 'Scott', eh?"

"A Scott. And when you get home? Titles. Money. Decorations. There are an awful lot of noble lasses who need a well... endowed beast like yourself."

"True, true..."

"And let me just say that my cap--"

"Our, you noisy feather--"

"_Our_ captain, sorry, had told me that she had your happiness in mind right to the very end."

Scott harrumphed into a chin. "She was a crazy beast, that Steep..."

"But, sir!" A plaintive complaint rose from behind his form. "She was your intended! How could you just leave her like that?"

"That'll do, Gibbs!" Scott waved a paw at his subordinate. "She left me more than once for the front -- and died valoriously."

"That's not a word, sir," Gibbs replied weakly.

"Then fire the Royal Dictioner when we get back."

"Yes, sir."

The cat worked the wagon about until it faced the doorway. Safely sheltered from Scott by Scott, he pointed a claw at Pip. "I'll be back for you, someday, you double-dealing, no good..."

The bird glanced at the marten next to him. "For a _mobility-provider_ he's rather uppity, isn't he?"

"Who knew they commissioned gardeners and rickshaw drivers?" Seth temporarily joined forces with the bird.

"And you! I'll get you, too, you milk-sopping..."

"But then again, who knew they commissioned dinners. Oop. Enlisted them, that is, Mr. Non-Officer." Very temporarily.

"Oh, rub it in, why don't you, you speciest..."

"Hey! I was talking to --" The cat tried to get a word in, between the pair.

"Gibbs!" Scott's voice cut him off. "I've not got all afternoon. Rest the lips, work the hips."

The cat tucked his tail and began pushing, a swell of snickers helping him out the door.

"Well... that was certainly odd."

"Wazzy, yer the only beastie who could make that comment ironic, just by the saying of it."

"Are you lot about finished?" Seth hefted his son in one paw, and held up a piece of flint in the other. "Or should I just start setting up a tea party and --"

Gloria flung her paw out at him, a horrified expression on her muzzle. "Don't men-- 'Gates! There he goes."

"A tea party? Why, my good beast, if there was ever a beast to ask about one of those, I would be it. I mean, we haven't heard any other Southern chaps or chapesses since our round friend was removed, and I was just saying to Rusty here that a good party is just what we need. A tea party and crepes. I know --" The rat kept prattling, even as Gloria grabbed one of his paws and half-dragged him down the corridor toward a bend. "-- breakfast, but really who wouldn't want fruit filling any time of--"

"Come along then, _m'Lord_. Mr. Pleasantrie, I s'pose ye can take care of yerself?"

"Well, that is... Seth, could you take Wazzock ahead? I'd like a moment with Ruston."

"So would I, but only if she were tied up and I had a long knife on me," Seth muttered. "Come on, Crazy One."

"-- and a wonderful set of doilies made just for --"

"You know I don't care, right?" Seth and Wazzock's voices slipped out of earshot as they disappeared around the corner.

"What is it, bird? We'd best get moving." Then, after a moment's consideration she looked at him and grinned, moving closer. "Ye've been showing a wee bit of spine, ye ken? Mayhap we'll get t'spend some more leisurely time t'gether, after this is over with."

Pip clacked his beak and hopped back a pace. "Look, Ruston, it's taking all my decency not to knock you out and leave you to Steep's fate, so just listen a moment."

The stoat shrugged and took on a bored expression. "Say yer piece, then. Not a beastie here t'stop ye."

"Look, Wazzock seems to need someone to keep the thermals from catching him, if you know what I mean. And Seth's new to all this, and has the kit to look after. And there are dozens of soldiers prowling around..."

"I'm not daft, Mr. Pleasantrie. Make yer point."

"Just -- I'm trusting you, here. As a military beast. As one military beast to another, even. I may not be much of one in most others' eyes, but gull-widdle to the lot of --"

"Ye want me t'look after 'em," she summarized.

Pip sounded small. "Yes. That. I have no clue if I'll get out of here or..."

The bird trailed off as Gloria placed a paw on his shoulder. And didn't insert claws, hook, blades, or other painful instruments into him.

"Yer a bloody fool, Mr. Pleasantrie." A wry smile graced her haggard features. "I'm not nice. I'm not merciful. 'Gates, I'm not even particularly fond of _you_. But I'm true t'm'word. I've no intention of letting the creatures who're helping me along go without a fight. Least ways or not, I'd prefer they stay breathing 'til I've had m'fun at 'em. Ye've a deal, 'fellow military beast'." She said the title with a snort, then shrugged and waved her claw. "Besides, Wazzy'd kill me if something became of his newest project."

"Pro-- project?"

"Oh, aye, birdy. Ye can't imagine what the next week and a half have in store for ye. True, he's got a short attention span, but when Wazzy wants to experiment, well..." She let the thought trail off into Pip's horrified imaginings.

The bird's eyes went wide. "Experiment."

Gloria ran her claws through his feathers the wrong way. "Ah, well, best not t'think on it, eh? Give us two a moment or two b'fore ye light it, will ye? I promised ye another personal encounter."

As she left, Pip could have sworn he heard, "Bloody rat'd take all m'fun..."

_Alone..._

Pip hurried back down to the ballroom, checking the line of powder, stretching his wings all the while. Since the room was empty, he began to speak aloud, again.

"Are we sure about this, Maplefeathers? After all, who knows how many beasts are left in this heap. And you heard the story Wazzock and his wife told. There could be countless others under here."

_Ah, Wazzock and his wife._ They'd reminded him of home. Of being back with Maeve. Those shifts from serious to silly. _She seems like the type who would go from cuffing to tickling in a moment. Like when I told her about this last voyage._

_"You're joining the navy?"_

"Yes."

"The Empire's_ navy?" Her voice was as incredulous as the look that she leveled at Pip._

He sighed. "Yes, Maeve, the Empire's navy."

"So, what? You've actually become a vermin, now?"

"You know it isn't like that..."

"Really?" She rose from their nest, hopping to the edge and glaring back at him, her black eyes mere slits. "Then explain to me, Mr. Pleasantrie."

"Look, after last month, no respectable captain will hire me." He settled himself into a more comfortable roost, brushing away a stray twig. "My wings are clipped."

Maeve hopped over the edge and began pacing in the sand around the scratch nest they shared. Pip couldn't suppress a small smile. Even now, she was beautiful; the evening sun glinted off her back, sending a cascade of burning gold across the simple dwelling.

"I hate it." She spat out her reply and leaned back against the nest. "I hate moving. I hate that our friends have stopped talking to us. I hate that you spend every waking hour on shore with that rabble, that you're gone for weeks, that we still haven't..."

Pip roused himself and moved to her side, reaching his primaries out to her. "I know, love. I know you're ready --"

"Have been ready."

"Yes." He moved closer and pressed his side against hers. When he felt her relax back against him, he finally spoke again. "I've been ready for a while, you know."

Her head snapped to face him, and her beak was half-open. "What? Then... what?"

Pip closed his eyes and leaned further against her. It tickled. When they sat like this, their feathers meshed together and gently brushing the flesh beneath. The sensation sent shivers, but soon, their body heat was trapped between them. It was soothing. "Twenty... and one."

"Twenty-one what?" The gesture settled the female, at least, and she leaned back into him.

"No... twenty and_ one." Pip murmured his explanation, "That's how much an adult game bird sells for at market. And how much an egg does."_

She was silent for a long moment. He felt her weight shift, no longer the soothing, entwining pressure. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Maeve." Pip leaned over and turned her beak with his, the light scraping sound echoing in the silent clearing. "I'm not going to risk you, this, our hatchlings. I know it's been years. I know it will take years. I know that you may move on and leave me, because I know you've wanted this since we met."

"Now, wait a--"

"No, Maeve, let me finish. I don't want that. I think_ you'll stay here for me. I hope you will. Even if you don't, I'll be happy. I'll have saved your eggs from that fate -- what would happen to them now..." Pip trailed off and rubbed his beak along hers. "I love you."_

"Maplefeathers." Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper as she leaned in. "I love you, too."

Pip snorted, "Ah... I miss getting to hear that name."

"They are, you know..." She opened his wings with one of hers, "just like golden maple leaves."

"Don't get all soppy on me, miss."

"So what if I want to reminisce?" She asked.

"You want to reminisce? I remember a certain night outside your nest…" Pip began to sing an off-key ballad. "Oh there was a maid, who lived just down the lane..."

"Don't you even sing that!" The female gave him a push, then whirled and took to the air.

Pip cackled and leapt to pursuit, still calling out, "She sent me a wink of her eye! And never did see --"

"Don't, you silver-tongued, golden-tailed rogue!"

Pip caught up to her, inverted, and grabbed her claws in his. "--Such a maiden as she, who gave me a kiss in th' sky!"

They began to lose speed and height, nearing the shoreline. "Let go, you!"

He did, but they still half-crashed in the sand, eventually flopping together in a mass of feathers and giggles.

She leaned forward and bumped foreheads with him. "You know I'll always wait for you, you 'Pip'-squeak."

"Pipsqueak?" Pip replied with a wink. "It's 'cause I'm the only one small enough to wriggle into your stony heart, then."

"You! Come 'ere!"

Pip stopped short and blinked a few times. _Funny… she was acting kind of moody when I left. Ah, well…_

The plover reached the trap-filled room and glanced about. "Well, old bird, looks like the line is clear. Time to get a proper stretch in."

He took a few cautious steps away from the line, then gave a hopskip. His wings beat against the air once, twice, and he was aloft.

_Ah... this feels nice._ He wheeled back out to the ballroom, across to the windows, letting the light dapple his feathers. Pip gave a light whoop and began to bank sharper, diving after dust motes as if they were grasshoppers.

Each pass made the motes spin faster, making him work harder. _Reminds me of when I tried to explain to Captain Ralph what it was like to fly..._

"Imagine trying to climb a fishing net. There are a thousand tiny holes that I catch with my feathers."

"Holes? But there aren't any holes! It's air!"

"Just because you can't see them, Captain, doesn't mean I can't feel them."

And it was -- it felt like climbing up a fishing net, each wingbeat.

Then, Pip caught a swoop up short and landed.

"No more theatrics. Time for business."

Pip moved back along the line, steeling himself for the coming flight.

He reached the end.

The bird took out his nib, the tip still stained from when he used it on his own friend. On Steep.

He brought it down once, hard, on the flint.

A shower of sparks hit the powder.

It hissed angrily at the plover and began to spark. Flames devoured sparks, then began a steady trek along the line. Pip took one look at the progress, then turned and began to fly. Corridors became blurs as he began letting his eyes unfocus. _Just bank hard. Avoid the walls and detritus. Keep to the... Why hasn't it blown, yet?_

Pip could see the welcome outdoors beckoning from the other side of the Grand Foyer.

The bird landed and began shuffling along the floor. Nothing happened.

Pip stopped. Nothing happed.

His leg began to tap, a double-time ticking off the seconds. Nothing happened.

Then, Pip's stomach sank. _I have to go back..._

He turned on his heel and began to slowly work his way back to the ballroom, his heart a deafening march in his skull. _Any minute... Any minute, now, I could be a fine mist of feathers and -- it burned fine, here._

Indeed, it had burned properly back through the ballroom and vault doors and...

"The Kneenibblers!" Pip flew into the room and looked down. There, in the middle of the raised path, a Kneenibbler had attacked the flames, as they moved by. The fish was blackened around the mouth and seemed surlier than usual. The powder had not survived the scaled assault, however. The pit in Pip's stomach grew to chasm proportions. "I have to light it... from here?"

Then, a realization hit him. Light had to come into the ballroom from somewhere.

The plover flew back for the flint stone, then returned to the broken trail of powder. "All right… all right. I can do this. Just get back to the ballroom and out a window. No problem, right?"

_I'll race ya._

Pip jumped at the voice, which seemed to come from over his shoulder. He turned, and before him was a phantasm of days long past. A plover, smaller than he, with muddier, brown markings?

"Maeve?"

_Come on. The fighters are coming back any minute, now. If we hurry, we can see 'em coming in._

"What are you—"

_You're just afraid you'll lose._

Pip sighed, then cracked a small smile. _She's giving me a wing-up, even now._

The words seemed to come not from him, but from an older, deeper place. "Sand or loam?"

_What?_ She asked, looking puzzled.

Pip struck the flint, then tossed the rock far into the pool, causing the rabid fish to converge on the new movement – and away from the small flame that leapt from the powder line. "If I'm gonna make you eat my dust, I should give you a choice!"

With a whoop, Pip took to the air and swooped toward the entrance. His wings cried out with the effort, then with indignation as the phantasm took the lead. _Come on, bird!_

Like a runner using blocks, Pip's wings bit into the air and he felt himself gaining on the tailfeathers in front of him. Balconies became branches, the chandelier morphed into a canopy, and there -- _She's going for that same hole in the branches she always does…_

Manic grin on his beak, Pip ducked his head and gave a wild cry, aiming for the gap—

CRASH!

He hurtled through one of the upper windows of the ballroom, his feathers turning aside shards of glass. Chancing to open one eye, the bird sighted a motley crew below him. "Seth, Waz—"

Pip never even heard the blast. First, it felt as if all the air had been stolen from him, and he flapped wildly to maintain his height, then a wave of force hit him from behind.

Pip began pinwheeling through the air, the explosion throwing him from his course. It was like watching a race while blinking. Each revolution brought another image of fiery oblivion for the bird. First, a snapshot of all the windows blowing out. Then, a spout of flame from the one he exited. Next, a drunken spiderweb of cracks raced along the wall. It began to collapse as that small voice called next to him. _You're not a rolling pigeon, you crazy bird – get upright!_

Pip squawked, then, coming to his senses and beating his wings crazily to try and slow his descent. He could see a large darkness looming in his next rotation, and—

WHUMP!

A giant, furry mass broke his fall, enveloping him in a musty blanket of fur.

"Good catch, Urie!"

"Now get down, the lot of ye!"


	87. The Last Dragon

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 86. The Last Dragon  
**

_by Seth  
_

Fire was a beautiful thing. In dark rooms, it danced in torch sconces. On banquet tables it gave everything a romantic glow. It brightened dreary days when storms raged outside. Light and warmth issued from cheery fireplaces in the winter.

However, when it exploded in a raging torrent of heat, terror and flying debris, Seth had a few opinions about it that were not exceptionally complimentary. Then, when some of the flying debris hit his back, tail, and ear, he voiced certain opinions that may not be recorded on paper in polite company.

Bruised and slightly singed from the heat of the explosion, the four were flung forward across the cobbles. Seth landed face first in front of two huge paws and looked up into the giant face of Urie, over which Keinruf peered at him and waved.

Slowly, the marten eased himself around and took in the view of what was left of the palace. It was an impressive sight. Even as the first blast was fading in smoke and burning cinders, fire found other stores of the strange powder which led to smaller, secondary explosions that kept everything a happy orange glow.

Through a new mask of soot and smoke that coated his fur, Seth grinned.

"Wow..." he said. "Can we do that again?"

Wazzock stared at the flames with a dazed smile on his face and a glazed look in his eyes. "It's so lovely and flamey! 'Flamey?' Is that a word? Hmm..."

Keinruf clapped his paws and nodded vehemently, his footpaws kicking into Urie's thick sides as he bounced up and down with excitement.

Gloria glared at their enthusiasm. "I'm not in the habit of blowing up m'country twice in one day, ye bloody pyros," she growled.

"It was just a suggestion," Seth muttered.

Wazzock took off his hat, fanned his face, and then seated himself more comfortably on the cobblestones. "I'm of the opinion that it was rather entertaining, myself," he contributed. "Shiny... Yes, that's it! The word 'shiny' comes to mind."

Pip hopped over and joined the rat, Seth leaned against Urie, and together they watched as the palace at Amarone burned.

"You know..." Seth said, then paused.

"What?" asked Pip.

The marten opened his mouth and then closed it again. What _did_ you say at a time like this? Most of the southern army had just been incinerated in a blast of fire and smoke. The body of his captain was nothing more than ash down in the collapsed cellars. He was running about with beasts loyal, and at the same time traitorous, to their countries. His son was sitting on top of what most beasts called a monster and was probably safer there than anywhere else.

"I don't know," he said finally. "I rather think I'd like to be finished now."

A piece of debris came rolling along the cobbles toward them. He reached out and stopped it with his boot. A silver plate, half of it clouded with smoke and ash came to rest. Bending down, he picked it up. Against all probability, the other half still had the reflective shine to it that only the very rich could afford to attain in their dishware.

Seth stared at his reflection and, for the first time in his life, failed to recognize the creature looking back at him. The rich luster of his fur was gone, replaced with filth, soot, ash, blood and tears that matted everything together. A raw, ugly scab ran across his face where Gloria had slashed at him with her hook. His left ear was ripped from where Pip had torn the arrow out. Dark brown, haunted eyes stared back at him without the usual half-lidded expression of boredom. Out of habit, Seth reached up to adjust his collar, but his uniform was torn, ragged, and beyond the help of any minor adjustments. For one long moment more, he looked at his reflection, then turning the plate, sent it sailing out over the cobbles, back the way it had come.

Looking up, he caught Pip staring at him. Seth shrugged.

"Why didn't you ever tell me I was hideous?" he growled.

Pip blinked. "You never asked. Besides, all furries look practically the same to me."

Seth winced. "Are you comparing me to that Scott beast?"

Wazzock tilted his head and inspected Seth. "I do believe you're a good bit smaller than he was," he commented. "And you have a much better profile."

The marten snorted, and reached up to buff his claws on his uniform. The fabric almost fell apart under the strain.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of us getting cleaned up and sleeping for awhile?" he asked after a moment. "Sun's setting, and we blew up a castle today with practically an entire army in it, killed almost all the Imperium's officials, and… and…" he paused and looked up at his son. "…and it's going to be past Keinruf's bedtime as soon as I see a decent place to lie down."

"Don't count on it," Pip muttered. "You may want to look behind you."

There was a sound similar to that of a kitchen plate hitting the ground behind them. But instead of breaking, it rolled around and then gradually came to earth with the whum, whum, whum, whumwhumwhum sound.

The four turned. There was a shield rattling to a halt on the cobbles.

"Oh, ye Fates!" Seth yelled. "This isn't fair!"

Squads of Imperial soldiers blinked back at him. Then, a familiar stoat stepped forward, hat in one paw, scratching his ear with the other one.

"Gloria?" he asked, blinking.

"Regi!" The brief grin on her face faded and was replaced by a scowl. "Where've ye been? D'ye ken what we've been through while ye dawdled about?"

The male stoat twitched his mustache at her. "You call cleaning up the mess you made dawdling, dear?" He shook his head, then looked at the palace, back at her, once more at the burning palace, and back at the four. "Anyway, I think I'm getting an idea."

Seth snorted. "Any idiot could get an _idea_."

Gloria glared at him. "Nice t'know yer mouth's still running, Lord Devonshire."

Seth rubbed at his torn ear. "Nice of you to notice." He stared at the ranks of soldiers lined up behind Regi. "They're a little late aren't they?"

"Oh, shut up," Gloria grumbled.

There was a flutter of wings overhead, and everybeast looked up to see a messenger gull, coming into land. The bird's feathers were covered with mud and filth that rivaled Pip's current state. Once on the ground the bird lost no time in waddling over to Wazzock, who relieved him of his message tube and sent him on his way.

Seth stared dully at the rat as he unrolled the message and read it aloud.

"To Whom It Concerns,

Captain Wintergreen reporting.

We arrived in Bully Harbour two days ago and discovered the untimely events that have been in motion there. While we have routed the Southern rabble, it seems that certain events transpiring at the palace at Amarone have reached the ears of the citizenry, specifically news of Lord Blithe Baltsar's betrayal and a possible conspiracy about the entire war. Understandably, this had brought all of Bully Harbour into revolt. I'm requesting further instructions from my superiors as what action next to take."

There was silence as the rat finished his reading and returned the scroll to its rolled up position. Seth felt unease growing in his stomach. Bully Harbour was in revolt, the majority of the Southern Army had just been incinerated, and he and Pip were surrounded by enemy soldiers in enemy territory.

On instinct, his footpaws edged themselves towards Pip without waiting for the rest of his body to catch on to the danger of the situation. The plover had moved to stand beside Urie and was saying something to Keinruf.

"Pip!" Seth hissed. "Em… now what?"

The bird turned to stare at him. "You're the officer, you tell me."

"Doesn't count when all your underlings are dead! You've been doing this longer!"

"You're taller, you can see better what's going on, and what we should do!"

"You've got wings, you idiot. You know _exactly_ what we should do."

Pip glanced down at the kit, then back up at Seth. "Right. Action... I don't suppose any of you nicked some of that powder? Glad as I was it got destroyed, it's awful helpful for talking our way out of things."

"Yes, of course I did!" Seth snapped. "Right after you killed Steep, I went and filled my pockets full of the stuff for just such an emergency! Be sensible!"

Keinruf blew a raspberry and, reaching into the hidden depths of his scarves, hauled something out and began playing with it.

"Stop that!" Seth snapped at the kit.

"Yeah, well at least I can tell my head from my tail, you ninny!" Pip shot back. "At least this bag of feathers won't be stuck on the ground when your married lady friend turns on us!"

"I wouldn't have that wench for ready money!"

"That's not what I saw, Mr. Sucking on Someone Else's Silver Spoon – getting pampered while I was down in the dungeons -"

"Don't blame me for knowing that courtesy can get you a long way, you nasty little..."

"What the Vulpuz are ye whispering about, lads?"

The two Southerners turned to see Gloria staring at them, paw and hook placed on her hips.

"Erm..." Seth articulated.

Keinruf threw his toy up in the air, little paws reaching out to catch it as it came down. Seth reached over and snatched it out of the air.

"I said stop it!" he snarled.

The little marten's lower lip began to tremble, and his eyes widened as tears began forming at the corners. Pip pecked Seth's arm sharply.

"What'd he do to you?" the bird snapped.

"He…" Seth looked down at the toy in his paw and froze. "Keinruf," he said, "where did you get this?"

The little marten stuck out his chin in a pout and crossed his arms.

"He must have had it hidden under all those scarves!" Pip hissed at him.

Gloria peered at the object and her eyes widened. "He hid _that_ on him? What else does the brat have hidden?"

Seth looked at the colorful, innocent picture Keinruf made.

"Fates know," he muttered. "Meanwhile…" He debated holding the small pawheld dragon on Gloria and decided against it. She did after all, have an entire army standing at her back.


	88. Every New Beginning

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 87. Every New Beginning..  
**

_by Pip  
_

"... and that's about all it --"

"Ahem."

The last vestiges of leadership of the Imperium looked up from their confab outside the ruined palace. After the news from Bully Harbour arrived, they had immediately formed a huddle, leaving the two Southerners looking at a bored, nasty horde of battle-weary beasts – ones who hadn't had entertainment or a decent meal in quite some time.

"What?" Gloria's voice was short, clipped. "I don't have time for this, Mr. Pleasantrie."

"Well, I was wondering if you were able to warn off any of our forces while you were escaping." The bird tried to avoid eye contact with the Rustons. Gloria's grin was terrifying, but Wazzock had been right about the be-mustached Regi, he was perilous.

"Oh, ye wanted us t'warn _both_ sides?" Gloria's attempt at innocence would certainly never land her in the Opera House.

Pip sputtered like a dying lamp. "You – wha!"

Cynthia nudged the bird, shaking her head. "Ignore her, Mister Bird. She's just trying to get a rise out of you."

"But... all those beasts! They never did--"

"_I_ took care of it. I was able to convince about a score to get out. The rest were yelling like a bunch of fools."

Regi's brow shot up at that. "You mean we have a score of Southerners sifting through the palace, looting goodness knows... Lieutenant! Secure the enemy!"

"Wait, you can't!" Pip's screech was indignant.

"Can't what? Fight a war? I'll not be arguing with a _messenger_ about that." He gave a pointed nod at the tube attached to Pip's leg.

The bird clamped his beak.

"No witty remarks now, Cabin Birdy First Class?" Gloria asked.

"No." The bird half-turned, then stopped. "But we _did_ save one of those weapons. And as you pointed out before, I'm the fastest beast here. I've got more than enough to get me back to the South if I have to. And if _we_ have the only working model of both the dragon and the powder..."

It took a moment for the realization to settle in, then Gloria gave a low growl. "Ye little..." It soon faltered, and she broke into a smirk. "Finally learning. Regi, we can't afford to spare a guard, though, can we?"

The stoat huffed into his mustache.

"There, Mr. Pleasantrie. With our business at Bully Harbour, ye've a good week b'fore we could get back here. They've that long t'dig their mates out and find a way off of Vulpinsula. After that... Well, I'm fair certain that little imagination can do better than m'words."

The bird considered this for a moment. "Fine. But I'm holding onto it until we get to Bully Harbour. Then I'll hand it over to Wazzock for disposal."

Gloria leaned over and whispered to the plover. "Now that ye've some spine, birdy, I can't wait t'get ye back t'm'table t'stretch it."

Pip shuddered.

~~~~~~~~~~~

They were still a day outside Bully Harbour, but the troop was taking a break at a nearby farm, resting in the frozen fields. Pip was sitting beneath a poplar, dodging tackles from his tiny companion.

"Come on, Ruffy, you can do better than that!"

A flying leap at the bird's neck brought a faceful of dirt for the marten kit. Pip was hanging onto an upper branch by the time Ruffy picked himself up. The kit gave a little stomp and pointed at the ground. The myriad of scarves were no longer a mess about him, but had since been tied all around his limbs – he now looked like a Fishmonger Way handkerchief-seller.

The kit growled, making a few mock-swipes up at the bird.

"Well, get on up here, then!"

As Ruffy made for the tree, a voice called out behind them. "Keinruf! What on earth are you doing?"

The kit paused mid-climb and slid back down to his rump. He cocked his head at his father, then pointed up into the tree.

"Pip, what've I told you about - !"

Pip made a face at Seth. "Oh, hush up, Mr. Bunchy-Breeches, we were just having a little fun while we waited. Not like it hurts anyone."

"Don't tell me how to raise my –" Seth got a pained expression as he squeezed out, "--son."

Pip raised his wings diplomatically. "I'm not telling you anything, Seth, but I am his friend..."

"Oh, friend. Of course. How _idiotic_ of me to think there was something wrong with a kit playing with it's food. _While it's still alive._ How will it be when I take him home? It will be hard enough explaining him, I suppose I'll also have to explain why he cries hysterically every time we have meat. And if that wasn't charming enough then he wants to know how the baroness of Twaybridge could wear feathers."

Pleasantrie watched in silence as the marten led his kit away. Ruffy held onto his father's paw, but had a confused look on his muzzle.

"He presents an interesting point, you know."

Pip groaned. "Not now, Wazzock."

"No, really. I mean, imagine how confusing it would be for a--" A wing in his face cut off the rat.

"I don't care!" Pip removed the wing and began to rant, gesticulating wildly. "I don't care how it might make him feel later in life – as if _I_ should think him not eating birds is a bad thing. I'm fine with him feeling bad for killing birds. I mean, I ki-- help. Helped Steep, and I'm a murderer. But a nice warm pigeon is just fine! I mean, true pigeons are pretty nasty beasts, not smart at all and less culture than yogurt, but they're... Ugh!"

The rat simply closed his eyes to ride out the verbal gale. "Hmm... pigeon culture..."

"It's horrid. They think rain is a higher plane of being."

"It is pleasant."

"And besides..." Pip kept to his point. "I'm simply enjoying what I've never gotten to. I mean, why does a prat like him get to have a – someone not meant to be a father in three lifetimes."

The rat placed a paw in the bird's shoulder. "You'll have an egg of your own, Pip. I mean, I never thought I would, and mine will be here, soon."

"Rats don't lay eggs, Wazzock."

"So you all say, but have _you_ ever seen where a ratling comes from?"

Pip groaned again.

~~~~~~~

_"You there, bird."_

"Aye?"

"Make yourself useful and scout ahead."

"For..."

"What do you mean, 'for'? Haven't you ever --"

"Regi, darling, let me. Get yer feathery rump in the sky, Mr. Pleasantrie, b'fore I pluck it for fletching. Ye ken the drill – like ye did for the South. Beast numbers and types, fortifications, the lot."

"Fine, fine! Savage..."

Pip was high above Bully Harbour. It was...

The invasion had been rough on the if-not-jewel-at-least-semiprecious-stone of the Vulpinsula coast. The subsequent recapture and revolt had taken that cracked and pitted stone and smashed it. The Slups were razed and flooded and would likely make lovely salt marshes, now. The majority of the city was strategic piles of rubble and detritus – barricades and fortresses of local gang leaders. Only in three places did Pip notice any semblance of order.

The richest of the rich were still safe. If needs be, they could always throw money out their windows to distract the rioters. Most had enough private muscle to stop winter, however.

The bank was secure, but there was no indication as to who had secured it, though it was most likely it was the biggest, meanest beast about.

Finally, there was a camp of some kind in Zann's Backyard. Pip couldn't tell who was in charge of that, either, but it certainly seemed the friendliest of the lot. Obviously a large number of refugees and other less-warlike beasts.

The bird trilled a low whistle and turned back. It felt good to be back out in the open air. No palaces or tunnels, just he and the wind once again. He even decided to take his time coming back, weaving about streets and over the low shrubs of the roadside – an aerial meandering.

Pip alighted a few feet from the group. "Well, there's not a lot to report," he began. As he continued, Pip moved toward the group's leaders, "It's like any other city under duress. Small pockets of-- Ack!"

A wingspan away from the rest, Pip felt a sharp thwack against his side, sending him into a heap. With his first breath, Pip felt the burning pain of snapped ribs.

This was different, though. The pain was deeper. Sharper. And each breath got harder and harder. Voices started out distinct, but began to muddle about him.

"Pip! Pip!" Wazzock sounded concerned.

"Get the daft luggage!" Gloria, her usual angry self.

"Pip!" Seth, even, sounded –

"That's it! Get 'im, beasts!" A strange voice, that.

"Ye bloody fool!"

"But 'e's a bird! What's wrong --"

"What's wrong, Pip..."

"Talk to us."

"Don't you eat 'em, or are..."

Pip coughed once. Tiny pinprick claws dug into one shoulder and shook. He tried to focus. He tried, but he felt


	89. Comes From Some Other End

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 88. ...Comes From Some Other Beginning's End  
**

_by Pip  
_

_Warm. It was still so warm in here. It doesn't matter how cramped it is, it's nice and warm._

I wish I could stop it. I can feel the walls beginning to give around me. They've been so nice. I can push off of them and use them to move about. And, of course, they keep the warmth in. But now...

Ugh! I can't take it! This cramp in my neck is getting to be too much.

Ow! That thing past my eyes -- that hard part -- it hit the wall, and it hurt. But there. That felt nice to move. But I think I might have hurt the wall. A chink in the armor, so to speak.

Ugh! Again. And, well... the warmth is nice, but I think I can smell something out there. It smells wonderful. And there's that sound. I think it's Mother talking to me. Her voice is so lovely – as safe as a thousand walls. As warm as a thousand fluids. More nourishing than that giant yellow thing I was with for all this time that I finished a few cold-cycles ago.

Maybe... maybe I can see her. I mean, when the tip if my face hits the wall, it kind of makes a hole, it looks like. All I have to do is...

Ugh!

Thwack!

It's only half-working. Maybe if I stretch out all my body and...

Gah!

COLD!

The wall falls out around me, and for a moment it's as if all the warmth in the world is gone, but then this wonderful, soft mass covers me. And I can hear and smell and it's her.

She's more wonderful than I could ever imagine.

"Look at you, handsome. Why, when your father gets back, he's going to be so pleased..."

End of week seven. 


	90. Disenchanted

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

start of week eight. (final week)

**Chapter 89. Disenchanted  
**

_by Seth_

Seth stared at the bird's broken body, the dark red blood pooling around its beak and staining the feathers in a grisly proclamation of death.

Slowly, he lifted his head and stared at the ferret standing over the bird. It grinned at him.

"Hungry soldier?"

Seth let his eyes drift half-shut while his mouth formed a lazy, lopsided smile. He stepped forward, sliding his sword from its sheath in one smooth motion.

"Now that you mention it," he said stepping over the bird's body, "I am a little peckish."

The grin on the slup's face froze as Seth thrust his sword into its throat, and held it there while blood spurted out, spattering his face and uniform.

"Did you know," the marten began conversationally, "I never even really liked him?"

The ferret gurgled, his eyes fading as he slowly crumpled towards the ground, angling Seth's sword downwards with him. Seth pulled it free.

"He was a slimy, treacherous, scheming little woodlander." He kicked at the bird's body. "He killed my captain and then attempted to redeem himself with the excuse of mercy." Seth slashed at the bird's wing. It snapped under the blow. "And he saved my life more than once!"

Reaching down he snatched a pawful of bloodied feathers and held them up. "Saved my bloody life!"

Someone behind him coughed and Seth turned to see the ferret standing there again, smirking at him, his throat intact.

_"Hungry soldier?"_

Seth charged. His blade whirling and hacking at the other mustelid... But he was everywhere. Attacking, laughing, his Imperial uniform unstained with blood despite the fact that Seth killed him. Over and over.

_"Devonshire."_

"He wasn't supposed to die! He had papers!" Seth shouted and hacked at a ferret coming towards him with a club.

_"Lord Devonshire!"_

"Papers! Bloody papers! From the bloody Emperor himself!"

Something hit Seth from behind, reaching around and restraining his arms, keeping him from sending another copy of the smirking ferret to his death. The marten threw back his head and howled, trying to twist and break the grip of the beast holding him.

"Lieutenant Devonshire!"

Something struck his face with brutal force. He snarled and snapped at the beast that had hit him. She slapped him again.

"Lieutenant Seth Devonshire!"

Seth dropped his sword. It made a cold clattering noise on the ground as he blinked and found himself staring into the cold gaze of Gloria Ruston.

"Lieutenant Devonshire ye'll restrain yerself this moment or s'help me, I'll kill ye too!"

Seth could feel his lungs pushing against his ribcage as he breathed in. He was suffocating. His throat was closing up and he was going to die. He felt his head swing to the right as Gloria hit him again. Somewhere far outside himself his face was starting to hurt.

"Papers," he muttered. "Bloody papers."

Something brushed past his leg. As if from a long way off, he looked down to see Keinruf move past him and stand by Pip's side. The little marten looked at him, back down at the bird, and then back at his father. Then, he bent down and picked up one of the feathers Seth had thrown about, and tucked it into the orange scarf tied around his head.

Seth blinked. And wished he hadn't.

The world came crashing back with gut-wrenching reality to the fact that there were five dead Imperial soldiers on the ground around Pip, and a good many more live ones standing around them looking very angry.

"Not to dampen your spirits any old chap, but you might want to consider your actions before you go on another spree like that," Wazzock said from behind him.

Seth turned his head to see that the rat was the one holding him back from wrecking more carnage.

"Although," the rat continued, "the way you sent that one chaps head sailing through the air like that rated a definite eight in a score of one to ten. Reminded me of the annual pumpkin festival where that one weasel dressed up like a-"

Seth cleared his throat. "If you don't mind Captain Pike, I think I've regained sufficient control of myself for you to release me."

Wazzock blinked and then let go. "Oh! Certainly!"

"Wazzy, don't ye dare let that brat go!" Snapped Gloria who was arguing heatedly with a fox who was pointing at Seth accusingly.

The rat instantly latched onto Seth again. The marten growled and shook him off.

"If you don't mind," he snarled.

Wazzock let go again. "Would one of you please make up your minds?" he asked. "This is getting awkward."

Seth picked up his sword. "How do you think I feel?" he muttered. "I just threw a fit over a bird."

He looked down at Keinruf who was sitting curled up beside the plover, stroking the soft feathers.

"Don't touch that," the marten snapped.

The kit looked up at him with brimming eyes and rocked himself back and forth, but he obediently ceased to stroke the bird.

"Lord Devonshire, I'll thank ye t'surrender yer weapon int' m'custody."

Seth looked into Gloria's hard gaze. Now Lord Ruston was arguing with the angry-looking soldiers and making wild motions in the air.

"Why?" Seth asked bluntly. "I'd prefer not to be cut down like he was." He pointed at Pip.

"And I'd prefer that the remainder of m'army reach Bully Harbour alive instead of being cut down by a hysterical marten that I have very little patience for trying t'keep alive."

Seth stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Gloria took his sword from his paws. "Ye really are thick, m'Lord. I mean: once we reach Bully Harbour and order's restored, you and any remaining soldiers from yer army will be tried for war crimes against the Vulpine Imperium. Those found guilty of following orders from their country will be released after a suitable internment. Officers over those will be executed." She smiled sweetly at him.

Seth snarled and moved forward to attack. The sword Gloria had relieved him of was suddenly at his throat.

"We had a truce." Seth spat.

Gloria pointed at the dead soldiers on the ground. "Aye, we did. And ye've done a fine job of ending it, ye moron. The only reason yer still alive is that I made a wee promise t'that bird. And a body's a body t'throw at any angry Slurpees we come across. Cap'n Pike, restrain the prisoner."

Seth felt paws pulling his arms behind his back and winced as rope cut into his flesh as it tightened around his wrists.

"What of the kit?" he asked as Gloria turned to rejoin Regi.

The stoat looked coolly at Keinruf who was still sitting by the corpse and staring at it.

"I doubt he's going t'murder us all in our sleep," she said. "And he's a citizen of Vulpine Imperium. He'll have our protection for the time being."

Seth watched her turn and walk away, her tail swishing from side to side with each step. He spat on the ground.

"Wench," he growled through clenched teeth.

Wazzock appeared beside him, his arms crossed as he eyed Seth's bonds.

"She isn't all that bad once you get to know her."

Seth snorted. "Tell my paws that."

"Did I make the ropes too tight?"

"Oh, no! Not at all," Seth said. "I'm capital. My captain and fellow soldier are both dead, but the sun is still shining. And I've been practically condemned to death, but that's perfectly fine because Lady Ruston wants me alive for now. And my kit is crying over something that he should be eating right about now, but that's all right as well because it's good for kits to learn early about death."

Wazzock nodded. "Always good to keep a positive outlook on things. I don't suppose you have any tea on you? I could brew some and we could have a nice refreshing drink… I could hold the cup for you."

Seth stared and then rolled his eyes.

"Keinruf, come here."

The little marten stood up slowly, and wiping his eyes, went to stand by Seth. The older marten nodded towards Wazzock.

"If you need anything you ask the nice rat for it, you hear?"

"Don't worry about that," Wazzock picked up the little marten, "I'll give him a lift when necessary. D'aww. He's like the plush marten I had as a ratling... except a little less bitey. My mum left some pins in the fabric, you see."

Keinruf nodded and one of his paws found his mouth again. Seth paused. What did one say now?

"And… and… and keep up when we move out," he finished lamely.

_Dear Sadie,_

_ I don't know when I'll see you again. I've been delayed here for an unknown period of time. I don't even know if you'll get this. Our messenger has been… has been. Please remember me Sadie. Please don't ever forget._  
_ I love you._

_ -Seth __  
_


	91. Some Cosmic Rationale

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 90. Some Cosmic Rationale **

_by Gloria_

"Gloria, why is that marten still alive?" Regi asked as they advanced on Bully Harbour. "He hacked down five good sailors in a fit of pique. Granted, he took out a few troublesome Slups beasts in the process, but..."

"I made a promise t'look after him if that bird died," she replied, adjusting the dragon she had stolen from the plover's corpse in her belt. Only Seth had protested the theft, and even then, it was half-hearted – better that the thing not be left by the wayside for any beast to pick up. "Nothing more. Nothing less."

The Blademaster snorted. "Sometimes I think you're an idiot, dear."

"All of the time I know ye are, darling. Now," she said, letting the playful grin slide off her muzzle like water off a duck's back, "where did yer lot set up headquarters last ye heard it? Still in the tunnels?"

"Oh, I wouldn't think that would be the brightest idea, giving so many chaps a lay of the Smudgie tunnels and all," Wazzock butted in, holding Keinruf in one arm and using the other to prod Seth along. "I could be wrong, though. Hello, Mr. Regi! Sorry I didn't get a chance to give my regards earlier. Palace blowing up, marching all hours, drinking tea, you know how it goes, sir. How fares the hunt, then?"

"Like one in which a dozen gulls are leading me in a score of directions," Regi said with a sigh. "It's just a bit difficult to take in all that's happened."

"Hss..." Akilina put in, drawing level with them. "I ztill do not believe it and I waz there for mozt of it. Leaving me out of their plot... Wretchez!" The monitor balled her paws into fists and glared ahead. "If I had been in on it, none of thiz would have happened. I'd have eliminated you foolz earlier and the weapon would be-"

"I ken ye speak too casual-like, Lady," Gloria interjected, cutting the MinoMis off. "If ye'd been in on it, ye'd be dead." She glanced over to the reptile and saw, with no small measure of satisfaction, that the minister was staring hard at the ground, grinding her needle-sharp teeth. Suddenly, the reptilian eyes shot up and held her gaze.

"And I think you zpeak too 'cazual-like' to the Acting Emprezz, Captain." She was careful to emphasize the rank. "I may have put you and Captain Wazzock in charge, but I can take that away when I zee fit. There iz nobeazt elze to contradict me."

"Perhaps not in the technical sense," Wazzock agreed, tilting his head to one side. "But the term 'acting empress' is only words after all, with no documented powers. And the way I see it, miss, there are two of us and one of you." He said the last part displaying the digits on his paw.

"Three," Regi put in.

"Purus," Switch said.

"Five. Figure I'm more likely t'get paid by Missus My-Word-Is-My-Honor, here, than the MinoMis." The Captain of the Wotfers, Fredrick Wright, had survived.

Bother.

"Six." Admiral Jelliko added his voice, striding forward. Truthfully, Gloria found herself surprised at the fox's support after she had just spared the murderer of several of his Navybeasts. Their eyes met and the admiral's smile turned to ice. That was it, then. He supported Wazzock, not 'Gloria and Wazzock.'

"Seven," Cynthia corrected, joining them.

"Can I knock it back down a bit with a minus one?" Seth grumbled.

"Pleasure to see you again, Cy." Regi ignored the bound marten, instead directing a charming, tobacco-stained smile at the rat lieutenant. "You're looking positively radiant these days, like a seedy drinking establishment set ablaze."

"Likewise, Regi." The rat returned the look. "Your mustache must be the envy of everybeast in his fluffiest winter coat."

"Anyway," Gloria interjected, stepping in between the pair with her hackles rising, "the headquarters, Regi, or we'll-"

A crossbow bolt whipped past the stoat's ear and buried itself into the eye of one of the creatures behind, effectively cutting her off.

"Yeeaaagh!" The beast screeched, collapsing.

"Well, well, well," a voice called. "Lookee wot we gots 'ere. The vermin responsible fer wreckin' 'alf the city an' murderin' the Emperor an' ministers."

"Has news about that spread, then?" Wazzock wondered. "I suppose those journalists are quick about their work. Good on them! I say, do you think they could get out a story about a wearet roaming through Bully Harbour fast enough for beasts to avoid getting mauled?"

"Henh...?" The pine marten who had taunted them cocked his head to the side and blinked, passing off his used crossbow and taking a loaded one from a lackey. "There's no such thing."

"I beg t'differ." Gloria leered as she and the rest of the Vulpinsulan forces stepped aside. A clear path opened and Urie bounded forward with a roar.

The marten's eyes went wide and he screamed, aiming his crossbow haphazardly and loosing the bolt. It slammed into Urie's leading paw and, with a yelp, the wearet missed his step, flipping and cracking his head on the street cobblestones. He rolled a bit more, then stopped. He didn't get up.

"That didn't go at all to plan," Wazzock observed with a frown.

"Shut it, Wazzy!" Gloria growled, pawing the hilt of her sword. "We still have 'em outnumbered."

"I-is that all ye've got, then?" demanded the marten, his voice rather higher than before and his tail bristling behind him. "Charge!"

A mass of resentful Harbourites poured from the woodwork, waving charred floorboards, rusty blades, and rancid fish. "For the Bilge!" most of them cried. "In the name of the Vulpinsula!" others called. A smattering of, "By the glory of Twenny-Wah and Finny!" rounded out the battle cries.

"What was that about numbers, Ruston?" Seth snarled.

"Captains! One of you! Do zomething!" Akilina commanded.

Gloria, eyes wide, turned to look at Wazzock, but the rat's mournful gaze was fixed on Urie's downed form. No help. Regi wouldn't know what to do, and a silver tongue would only incense them further. What did enraged Slurpees understand about all they'd been through, anyway? All they'd lost, and the decisions that no simple Vulpinsulan should have to make?

Nothing!

The stoat's paw grabbed instead for the dragon, and she pulled it from her belt, aiming it forward at the approaching mob. An image of Priscilla Steep, half her body gone, the wounds cauterized, holding in what was left of her internal organs for the heat of the explosion, flashed through Gloria's mind.

No. The barrel came up. No!

Gloria pulled the trigger and a crack of thunder boomed across the clear sky as the dragon belched fire and smoke into the air. Everybeast skidded to a stop, the leaders of the throng falling back onto their companions. "No!" Gloria snarled, the sound of her own voice muffled for the ringing in her right ear.

"You wasted the only shot!" Seth howled. "You idiot! You could at least have shot him, you know? The beast out for our blood!" Wazzock punched him.

"Sorry, old chap," the rat said, a porcelain smile upon his maw. "Reflex to obliviousness. Nice to have in the Bilge during the wee hours of the morning. Makes the paw a bit sore, though."

After a few seconds, the pine marten Slurpee pulled himself up to a sitting position and yelled, "W-what the 'Gates is that thing?"

"This?" Gloria hollered back, hurling the spent dragon to the ground and stomping on it. "This thing has ruined our Imperium! It's turned emperors and ministers traitors. It's killed hundreds of beasties on this very soil. It's turned m'lad spy, besmirching the family name. It's destroyed an Imperial treasure. And it's brought m'home int' revolt. It's the worst invention a Minister of Innovations has ever conjured up from the depths of his nightmares. And shut it, Wazzy, the Fishin'-Powered Toasters were never as bad as this," she preempted as the rat raised a claw in protest.

"Look, ye louts," the lady stoat continued, "I'll be damned b'fore I see this thing used against another living beastie while I'm still drawing breath. It's not subtle or beautiful or elegant, as proper killing should be. It's ugly and messy and crass. Like a relative from the country – ye want t'be rid of it as soon as it's come."

"Gloria..." Wazzock placed a paw on her shoulder, and she didn't shrug him off.

"But I'm not above calling in the order t'slaughter every last one of ye morons the good old-fashioned way." The captain bared her teeth at them and found Regi's paw entwining with her own. She didn't look at him, but squeezed his paw tightly. "We need t'get int' the Harbour t'figure out the situation so's we can end this. Can ye not understand that, ye bedraggled, paint-huffing, swill-spitting-"

"I think that's quite enough said, Ms. Gloria," Wazzock interrupted, stepping forward and shifting Keinruf so that he could raise a paw to placate the mob. "The way I see it – and what I think Ms. Gloria is trying to get at – is that you chaps all enjoy a good looting and sacking now and again, but won't you let us by just for a bit? You know this is going to be dealt with one way or another. We will get through. Wouldn't it be nicer to put your energy into more profitable ventures while you can? Don't worry, I'm sure there a plenty of other likely chaps out there to give us our due."

The marten Slurpee scowled, then rose to his footpaws and turned around for a whispered conference with his fellows. Half a minute later, he declared, "We'll allow ye safe passage through our portion o' the 'Arbour. But only if ye swear by the Emperor that there'll be free grog fer a month once ye settle things."

"May I?" Jelliko stepped up, placing a paw over his heart. "You have the word of Admiral Jelliko of the Imperial Fleet that you will have free grog for a month at some undefined future date when this matter is settled."

The Slurpees cheered.

"That was easy," Seth sneered, rolling his eyes. "Are all your citizens so dense?"

"No." Regi shook his head.

"That's the problem," Gloria concluded.

--- --- ---

After using the cobblestones to break the last working dragon into pieces, and tending to Urie – the bolt was removed from the wearet's paw and the sizable lump on his noggin bandaged – the Vulpinsulan forces marched on. The first beast hit by the marten's crossbow was dead. They tossed him to the side of the road. His wouldn't be the first body the undertakers would have to deal with, and with the way the day was going, likely wouldn't be the last.

"Wintergreen and Kips should be holding down the Banke in Zann's Backyard," Regi explained as he led them along. The Slups beasts with whom they had made their temporary truce looked on warily, tracking their movement from the tightly-packed rooftops. "Blast! If only that wretched bird had managed to get out his full report before dying."

"A beast cannot predict when he'll die, Mr. Regi," Wazzock pointed out. He had passed Keinruf to Cynthia so that his paws were free to mind Seth's rope. The little marten growled at the lady rat and tried to bite her claws as she waggled them at his nose. "If he could, there would have been an upswing in coffin sales a few weeks back."

"It's a fair sentiment, though," Gloria rejoined. "Not much use as a spy if he dies on the job."

"Tell me, do you take lessons to achieve that level of arrogance, Lady Ruston?" Seth inquired.

The Captain of a Guard raised an eyebrow at the Southerner. "There'll be the pot calling the kettle black, m'Lord."

"Really? I didn't know prisoners of war were allowed to be arrogant. Just how much is allotted to me every day, Lady Ruston? I'd like to know how much I have left."

"Oh, shut it, ye moaning dandy," Gloria growled, cuffing what was left of the marten's wounded ear. He winced and she smirked.

The Banke was within the Slurpee marten's territory, or at least no other beast had captured the area as of yet. "Remember yer promise," he warned and withdrew with the rest of his lot, presumably off to plunder what they could, while they could.

Gloria, Wazzock and Seth, Akilina, Wright, Regi, Cynthia and Keinruf, and Jelliko approached the doors of the Banke while the others formed a bristling ring around the building. "Open up!" Regi called, pounding on the doors. "Commissioner! Captain! We've returned with reinforcements."

"How do we know it's you?" came a muffled squeak from inside.

"Couldn't you just have a look out the window?" Wazzock suggested after a moment of silence.

"Shuffling behind the door, then a scaly snout poked its way into view from one of the high windows. A moment later the door opened and a surly-looking rat motioned them inside.

"Greeny!" Wazzock smiled, grasping Captain Wintergreen's paw and shaking it. "Nice to see you again. How's the family name? Oh! That reminds me. You and Ms. Gloria have something in common these days, what with her son-"

"Wazzock!" Gloria snarled, jerking the rat's wounded ear so that he was forced to face her. "I'll ask ye, kind as ye like, t'keep gossip t'tea time."

"Ooo... tea time! Isn't it around that time now?"

"It's more like lunchtime, if anything," Seth observed.

"Regardlezz of the hour, you are late," Kips hissed, approaching from the tall doors of the white marble building. "The zity haz gone to madnezz zinze the ztory of the Emperor'z betrayal and death broke."

"Who's heading up the revolt?" Regi asked, twitching his mustache. "There was a marten we met earlier getting here, but he didn't seem the clever sort."

"Not a marten." The Fogey Commissioner shook his head. "A fox. Hiz name iz Anguz Hrizt, but everybeazt iz calling him Finny."

"Wait." Wazzock blinked. "Finny Hrist the Twenny-Wah dealer? Didn't Lord Rainblade hire him for his daughter's engagement party last spring?"

"Aye." Gloria nodded. "Face like a noble, but paws fast as a riptide. I think half the beasties there went home penniless that night."

"But quite chipper about it," the rat captain concluded.

"Where iz Mr. Hrizt now?" Akilina wanted to know. "It only zeemz logical that we confront him."

"He'z zet up hiz camp in Zatire Zquare," Kips explained. "We managed to keep him from taking the Marketplaze, but I don't know how for how long. The gangz we were zupporting with MAUL there did not look favorably upon on another. Captains Whalebaker and Jaufrisard were left in charge of the area while we kept the Banke zafe from any gangz."

"Then we should set off at once!" Regi declared.

"That's your strategy then, is it?" Seth stalled. "Just bound off and mill around foolishly when you arrive? Brilliant plan. Brilliant."

"Ye wouldn't be wanting us t'hold in order t'prolong yer own miserable life, would ye, m'Lord?" Gloria asked stroking her hook across her jaw.

"Of course I'd like to prolong my miserable life," Seth snapped. "I'm actually quite attached to my miserable life. I find the idea of parting with my miserable life intensely distasteful. However, that doesn't change the fact that your plan – or rather, lack thereof – is moronic."

"Hmm... what can we do?" Wright wondered. "Kill this 'Mr. Hrist'?"

"Why not make him emperor?" Everybeast turned and stared at Wazzock.

"What are ye on about now, Wazzy?" Gloria asked, exasperated.

"Just as I said." The rat captain shrugged. "He's got control of the city and most of the beasts in it. Make him emperor and he'll tell everybeast to lay down arms."

"And supposing he refuses?" the lady stoat asked.

"Ah... well..." Wazzock stroked his chin. "That is a bit of a cucumber."

"Pickle, Wazzy."

"No, thank you. I never eat pickles after sun up."

"Ugh..." Gloria covered her face with her paw.


	92. Hear the Creatures Sing

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 91. Hear the Creatures Sing**

_by Wazzock_

_"Do you hear the creatures sing?  
Singing a song of angry beasts?  
It is the music of some creatures  
Who will not be slaves policed!  
When the beating of your heart  
Echoes the beating of the drums  
There is a life about to start  
When tomorrow comes!"_

- - -

Back in Bully Harbor, marching down a street, the shadows lengthening with the angle of the afternoon, the yells of creatures fighting tooth and claw on some other street, and Wazzock didn't quite feel right. Even ruffling the fur on Urie's bandaged head, causing a rumbling purr, did nothing to raise his spirits. Not that his spirits were really that low. All that had happened had been good for the Imperium.

Perhaps that was the problem.

He let the world fall away. The heated debate between authoritative figures faded – they could do without him for a while. He let his mind focus upon the limping wearet beside him.

"Where's home for you, Urie?"

The wearet, still a little dazed from the lump between his ears and the pain in his paw, cocked his head to the side. "I remember, when I was young, I was in this large dank room with lots of shiny glass things with liquid and bubbles in them. Then, I was poked with sticks. I got my jaws on them and cracked them, then cracked the arms of the beasts who poked me with them. Was that my home?"

"No. A home is somewhere to hang your hat and coat, and put your footpaws up on a stool, and rest without any worries."

Urie paused in walking to look under himself at all four of his footpaws before returning his gaze to Wazzock. "But I don't have a hat or coat. And I don't know if I would fit on a stool properly."

"Can't have that. I think I'll bring you to the tailor after this is over. And the haberdasher. Need to repair my hat." He took it off his head to inspect it - multiple holes from arrows, slightly singed edges from the Bilge fire, black smudge from the pawheld dragon, feather missing, and all three corners dented. He looked at it long and hard.

"No, perhaps I'll leave it the way it is," Wazzock said. "To remember. Just needs one more thing." He reached inside his coat and produced a feather, shimmering gold and brown. He'd procured it from Pip before the unfortunate incident. It had fallen out by itself anyway. He'd meant to ask Pip's permission before using it. The rat carefully placed it on the hat, rubbed it, letting the texture run between his digits, and then placed the hat back on his head.

"What's the meaning of that?" Seth demanded, scooting into Wazzock and Urie's interlude. "Are you sick?"

"I did care about, Pip, Mr. Devonshire. You are not the only beast to lose creatures during these events, and the only thing we can do is remember. But, back to the topic of home! I guess... home is where you feel most comfortable."

"Then, wherever there are fish," Urie said with no hesitation.

"Ah, I can drink to that. And you, Mr. Devonshire?"

The marten glowered at Wazzock, stared at his bound paws, spat, and then finally responded: "Shove it up your nose."

"Fair enough."

"Tea?"

"Not just yet." With that, Wazzock let the voices and sounds flow back into his attention, which appeared to be at a much higher volume. He sidled back into the bickering leaders and took account of the situation.

"...a gang of oppozing creaturez blocking the way ahead," Kips muttered. "Zeemz they have conztructed a zome zort of wall in the middle of the ztreet."

"Barricade," Gloria confirmed. "Ran int' these in the grog shortage of '69. Annoying things, aye. Make a fine mess of getting anywhere in a timely fashion. But anyway, mounting it d'pends how motivated the beasties b'hind it."

"Can't we juzt go around it?" Akilina asked.

"Too much trouble, Lady." Regi shook his head. "Too many angry small groups scattered about. We're lucky to have gotten this far without a tangle. Besides, if we're aiming to deal with the matter directly, a direct route would help that."

"I have a suggestion."

"Cy, my dear," Wazzock said, "You can't just set fire in any situation. I know it usually causes the desired results, and you so love the way it crackles on flesh but sometimes it's highly unnecessary."

"Actually, Wazzy, she may have..."

"Same goes for you, Ms. Gloria."

"We could just fight through the buggerz."

"I quite think we've hit our quota of death for the day. I shall deal with this."

"Wazzy," Gloria cautioned with a frown, "they'll not be swayed by a fancy hat or fish."

"Ms. Gloria, you underestimate me. Anyway, as shocking as it may be, I am currently out of fish, so it isn't even an option. If so, I would have just done a charming fish bake over those nice fires over... Oh, those seem to be bodies of some sort. Urie, please do not sample those."

"But eating helps healing!"

Wazzock rubbed his paws together. "Cy, take my club and..."

Cynthia grabbed Wazzock by the snout. She yanked him forward and down, until he was on his haunches. She pressed face and whiskers against her stomach, which Wazzock found to be rather more cushy than usual. He wondered for a moment if he should inquire about this, until his whiskers felt the twitch. He closed his eyes and he could sense the meaning. Not a twitch. A kick. He brought his paws up and felt under Cynthia's shirt, against the fur of her tummy.

A polite cough from Jelliko. "I'm all for you and Lieutenant Pike's odd displays of affection, made last year's Chillmarrow Charity Ball the best I'd ever attended, but... what exactly are you two doing?"

Wazzock slowly rose and straightened his hat. "It appears our egg is actually Cy's tummy."

A collective confusion spread amongst them.

"Close enough," Cynthia said. "I know you have no idea what you're doing but, on Vulpuz's whiskers, if you die and leave this to me, I'm going to swim past Hellgates and kill you again."

"I wouldn't cause an event as such, Cy. That would be terribly anticlimactic." He saluted and headed towards the barricade. He needed to do this.

He glanced at a building on his right. He almost ran to it. He almost went up to the window, pressing his nose against the dirty glass, staring at the customers, waiting for their orders of fish. Behind the counter, an experienced rat whistled as he gutted and filleted fish with an sharp knife and deft paw. Meanwhile, a female rat traded off the fish for gilders. There were smiles on both of their faces as a young rat sat in the corner positioning uneatable fish bits in imaginary battles.

He almost let himself go in through the door and find the same horrible carnage on the counter. He almost went to the back room to find the murderer reveling in the act. He almost killed his father. He almost let himself.

But walked past the abandoned fish shop and didn't glance at it again.

How could he keep going forward?

He stopped. The top of the barricade bristled with arrows, staves, pikes, and spears, beasts behind them, with eyes that pierced him further than the weapons.

"I am Captain Wazzock J. Pike."

An arrow ricocheted past his left boot.

"You see…"

A spear encountered the ground in front of him, sticking in a crack between the cobbles.

He gazed at the faces, lost in the shadows, only their weapons solid and real. He suddenly returned to the iceberg, the chill of seeing those glacial mountains coming up on them. It was a chill that came with impending doom.

Another arrow hit him in the shoulder, ripping through coat and hide, and passing on, blood splattering across his face. He scampered back as more missiles started falling. He slipped on the ice as he dove for a promising piece of debris. But not before an arrow went into his boot. He lifted the piece of wood, a door, it appeared, in between him and the danger, some of the points penetrating through, but not enough. Eventually, things stopped hitting the door and the cobbles around Wazzock. He breathed hard. He felt the arrow in his footpaw. In fact, he could see the point sticking out the back of it and the rest in the front. Not very promising.

"There's more where that came from, ye rotter!"

"I am quite fresh, chap. Not rotten in the least," he managed to shoot back. "You ruined a perfectly good boot, you know. Do know how difficult it is to find boots for rat paws?"

"Ooo, fancy boots. Must go with the fancy hat. Cute feather," somebeast sneered before another item hit the door.

"Do _not_ make fun of the hat," Wazzock growled.

"Wazzock! What did I tell you?" Cynthia called faintly from down the street.

"Tis only a flesh wound, dear. I'm all right. Trust me."

"That's the problem, Wazzy," Gloria yelled.

Wazzock had to admit Gloria had a talent for inserting scorn at any volume. Or no volume at all. He could almost see the daggers shooting into him from here. Ah, he'd been in worse snaps before.

Worse…

_"Come here, Wazzock."_

"Pa?"

"Just come here. I need you to help me with something."

Wazzock proceeded forward shakily.

"I'm not well, Wazzock."

Wazzock noticed one of his father's eyes roll back into his skull. He noticed a slight froth around the sides of his jaws. His paws shook.

"I just… didn't mean to… Your mum is watching the counter, isn't she? She has to be. I didn't…"

Wazzock only shook his head.

His pa growled.

"You need to do something, Wazzock. Just remember that your mum and I love you."

The tears didn't form as he knew they should. He could only stare. "I know."

"You were our best catch. I need to tell you something. I had a problem with a woodlander a few nights back fishing… otter. Crazed creature. Bit me. Thought nothing of it. But now… you need to do something."

"What, Pa?"

He placed the hatchet in Wazzock's paws.

His pa snarled and lunged.

Wazzock did as his pa asked.

Wazzock came back. He used the door to lift himself up, to look up at the shadowed faces. Ignoring the pain of his shoulder and footpaw. He pointed a bloodied paw at them. "You bloody idiots. Who do you think you are? You're just a bunch of blasted nimrods fighting for what? What does beating me up prove? Because I have a blasted hat…? I… expected you to start shooting me by now, actually."

"So did I, actually."

Wazzock turned around to find Urie behind him, and the small marten kit on wearet's neck. Urie limped forward enough to sidle up right next to the rat. Wazzock dropped the door and sat down. He carefully picked up the marten kit, glancing warily at the barricade.

A voice called from the barricade.

"Is that Ruffy?"

Wazzock casually ruffled the scarf enshrouded marten between the ears.

"Aye. I believe that's the wee chap's name."

Keinruf sucked on his paw diligently.

A weasel emerged from the shadows of the barricade. He wore a rough uniform that looked somewhat professional. He carefully climbed down the slope of debris, paws crunching on the snow over to Wazzock.

"So, how do you come to be in possession of this kit?"

Wazzock shrugged, "Rather long story, to be sure. Do you have a good supply of crumpets to munch if I told it? Perhaps a bandage too, if you don't want me to faint of lack of blood mid-way through."

"That's Alissa Wright's kit."

"Really? Wright! You're an uncle!" Wazzock called back to his group.

Swearing answered.

The weasel allowed himself a slight grin, then let if fall away. "Fighting dirty bringing this fellow into things."

"Considering the short time I've known the rascal, I wouldn't be surprised if it was his idea."

"All right. So what do want?"

"What would you do if I said 'tea?'"

"Take Ruffy off your paws and proceed to kill you and your massive…"

"Wearet," Urie offered.

"…wearet."

"Ah, then I ask for a parley."

The weasel leaned in close enough that his whiskers touched the end of Wazzock's snout.

"What makes you think our reaction to that request would be any different?"

They both heard an odd noise and glanced down to see the marten kit rolled up in a little ball, sleeping and, in turn, snoring.

"Wouldn't want to wake the little chap, would we?" Wazzock asked.

The weasel turned back to the barricade and made a signal. The weapons receded.

"Captain Pike, I believe we'll respect your request for a parley. Hope you didn't take offence to us shooting at you."

Wazzock shrugged. "Barricades are a Bully Harbour pastime. No harm done. Except for the serious wounds."

"Yes, your footpaw did take a number."

"I'm more worried about the boot."

"The boot is a total loss."

"I thought so."

"Send your wearet…"

"Urie."

"Ah, Urie to your accomplices and tell them Finny will meet with them. In the meanwhile, let us get you fixed up." The weasel clicked his claws and half a dozen beasts climbed down and lifted Wazzock up, gently, as not to wake Keinruf. Urie pushed his snout into Wazzock, growling low, and Wazzock patted him. "You heard the weasel. Just tell the chaps what's up and lead them over. Tell Mr. Devonshire his little liege is in good paws."

Urie gave a last warning growl at the beasts, one of those that suggested that if anybeast hurt a whisker on either Wazzock or Keinruf, he would be lacking in a randomly chosen limb, but the wearet did limp back up the street.

The creatures carried Wazzock over the barricade.

"Who are you, Mr…?"

"Treat Meier, head dealer of the Trumps. We bet against the odds so you don't have to."

"Nice tagline."

"Thank you."

"Thought you disbanded years ago."

"No. We just shuffle to the shadows and lay down our cards when least expected. Forgive the gambling analogies."

"It's a nice touch."

"Anyway, here's my card, if the stakes are high, feel free to deal us in."

Wazzock took the card curiously. It was a Jack of Spades, the visage of a devious weasel on its face, some brief instructions on the back. "I'll keep this in mind," he said, "Just have to ask: If you ever succeed, do you say to the beast you've beaten 'ye been _trumped_'?"

"Yes. But it got old quick."

"Figures."

They eventually made it to a little shop that Wazzock recognized right away. He smelled the soft barky smell to the air. He knew the round tables and round stools and round silver pots and round wooden cups. It was his favorite tea shop. It had all held up rather well considering the war about.

A fox sat at one of the tables. He was surrounded by other beasts, but it seemed necessary to notice him first. He had a certain aura about him that drew attention as Wazzock was laid on another table.

"What have we here?" the fox asked, then sipped from a cup.

"A Captain Wazzock Pike. Requested a parley, sir. His companions will be here presently."

There was a growl and an exclamation of 'Pike?' A rather large head attached to a rather large body emerged from behind the fox.

"There's no fish, Lye."

The wearet's ears drooped, and in an obviously female voice, gave a disheartened 'D'awwwww'. Her ears perked again when she noticed Wazzock. She slithered around the table and started sniffing Wazzock and Keinruf. Keinruf giggled when her nose made contact with his footpaws.

"You smell nice," she commented. "Really nice."

"Oh, thank you, Ms. Lye," Wazzock said. "Though, it may be Urie's fault. He does spread a rather distinct musk…"

Lye started bouncing. "Urie? You know Urie? He knows Urie, Finny! I miss Urie. He's nice."

"Calm down, you crazy creature," Finny sighed. "Seems you've picked up one of these hellions, Captain Wazzock. Incorrigible creatures, aren't they? I ran across this lass in the midst of battle, somewhere between fighting against the SA and fighting for freedom. She lost her rider and was searching for some fish. She's currently serving as my bodyguard. They're loyal to a fault once you gain their trust. "

"Quite. More enthusiastic than vulpines on foxglove, no offense."

"None taken. Dr. F?"

A stoat perked up. "Yes? Foxglove withdrawals are quite dastardly things."

"Would you please take a look at this rat's footpaw?"

"Ah, I usually work more with the insubstantial, but so goes war. Flesh wounds are just so straight forward." The stoat settled on a stool and repositioned the glasses on his snout. He paused and looked at Wazzock closer. "You're that rat I met with a few seasons back. Are you still disillusioned? Did you take my advice and settle with your inner demons? Invite them for a dash of tea?"

Wazzock grinned. "Indeed."


	93. A Deal with the Devil

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 92. A Deal With the Devil  
**

_by Seth  
_

In books and stories, the noble hero is always portrayed as being brave and courageous in the face of adversity. He takes beatings and torture with nary a word, and plots revenge with a smoldering gaze when his enemies betray him and take him captive. His silence always infuriates his captors as they try to break his spirit with their taunts. But, his head is always held high and proud despite their best efforts. If any are weaker than him and are broken by the pressures of cruelty, he strengthens them with encouraging words and lends his own strength to their aid.

"My footpaws hurt," whined Seth. "And I don't want Gloria to hold my rope. She tugs."

Gloria rolled her eyes and ignored him.

"I'm hungry."

"Shut up," the lady stoat growled, her eyes on Wazzock as he performed his antics ahead of them.

"I don't like you," Seth snarled. "And you interrupted Keinruf's nap. He gets grouchy when you interrupt his nap."

"M'Lord..." Gloria threatened.

"Well _I'm_ not going to deal with him when he starts screaming."

Seth swallowed as Wazzock was taken into the teashop and the rest of them were required to wait outside. The rat seemed to be the only one of them even remotely interested in keeping him alive. Beside him, Keinruf was drawing in the dirt with a stick he'd found. Seth shifted. His paws were falling asleep.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of you loosening the ropes is there?"

"Quit fidgeting, ye nag," Gloria hissed at him. "We still don't know what's going on."

"Of course," Seth muttered back, "a bound creature with a kit attached to him is so _very_ threatening."

Gloria stomped on his footpaw. "None of yer lip, Devonshire."

Seth yelped and hopped about awkwardly. "You malicious wench!"

Gloria smiled at him sweetly. "Don't vex me, Lieutenant or I'll give ye something real t'whine about, ye ken?"

The weasel that Wazzock had been talking to earlier reappeared out of the teashop. He pointed at Gloria, Regi, and Seth.

"You can come in now," he said, scooping up Keinruf and leading the way.

"Hey!" Seth cried indignantly. "That's mine!"

The weasel turned slowly and gave him a long look before glancing at the kit and back at him. "I'm not sure I'd advertise that fact, mate."

Seth looked incredulous. "What in 'Gates-"

Gloria shoved him forward, ordering, "Shut it and move."

Seth fell silent and followed the weasel inside. Wazzock was lying on a table, getting his footpaw bandaged at by a stoat. At the head of the room, a fox presided over the scene, tea laid out before him on his table. He nodded at Gloria.

"Lady Ruston, I presume."

She eyed him. "Aye."

He glanced at her uniform. "Guard Captain, right?"

She looked at Wazzock. "What's going on, Wazzy?"

The rat waved a paw in the air. "This is Mr. Angus Finley Hrist," he announced.

Seth eyed him. Mr. Hrist looked extremely trustworthy, religiously honest, and the sort of beast to help little old ferrets cross the street. Warning bells sounded full blast in his head.

"And _this_ is the beast you want to make Emperor?" he asked. "Are you mad?"

He doubled over as Gloria's elbow met his ribs.

"That _hurt_!" he howled.

Finny gave them a questioning look. "I beg your pardon."

"Don't make me expedite yer execution, Lord Devonshire!" Gloria hissed.

Seth took a careful step away from her. "I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that you wanted to bring it up tactfully. I'm only a prisoner of war after all."

The look on Gloria's face could have curdled milk.

"You're really ugly when you do that," Seth commented. "Makes you look like your sucking on lemons."

"Why ye-"

"That is enough. Thank you," said Finny, sipping at his tea. "Now, might I inquire as to the state of your business? I have a rebellion to manage if you hadn't noticed."

Wazzock shifted on the table and raised his head.

"I think that Seth, he's the chap tied up, stated it rather nicely. We'd like you to be the Emperor."

The fox leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "What makes you think I _want_ to be Emperor?"

For a long moment, there was silence in the room. Then, Seth shifted.

"I'll play you for it," he said.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"What?" said a chorus of voices.

Seth nodded at the table where Finny sat. "I'll play you for it."

"What nonsense are ye spewing now, ye gull-eyed dandy?" Gloria asked.

Seth moved from paw to paw. "Well look, he's a gambler right? Card dealer, risk-taker, madcap and entrepreneur, daredevil, charlatan, beast of the tables, whatever you want to call him. His game is Twenny-Wah."

"Are ye finished?"

"Well, I'll make a bet with him. We play best out of five rounds at Twenny-Wah. He wins, he does… whatever he wants. I win, he becomes Emperor and brings this revolution to an end."

Finny eyed him, mouth pursed in thought. "What's in it for you?" he asked finally.

Seth turned to Gloria. "If I win, you grant me my life."

Gloria crossed her arms. "Ye'll still go t'prison."

"I know."

"For life."

"Better that then hanging."

"Ye'll be miserable. I'll make certain of it."

"Lady Ruston," Seth said, "I've become rather attached to my existence. And I've discovered that I've been miserable through most of it. If you don't mind, I'd like to continue being miserable and alive as opposed to being miserable and dead."

She thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "It's no skin off _my_ nose."

Seth turned back to the fox. "Do we have a deal?"

Finny considered him and then nodded. "Very well," he said. With a grand sweep of his paw, he sent the dishes and trays from his meal crashing to the floor. A moment later, a deck of battered cards appeared on the table as if by magic. He nodded to a chair across from him.

"Step up lad, and let's see what you're made of."

Seth looked at Gloria. "Do you mind?"

She blinked innocently. "What?"

Wazzock cleared his throat. "I think he'd like the use of his paws," he said. "Bit hard to play cards with your teeth."

Gloria smirked. "It'd be fun t'watch him try though."

Her husband rolled his eyes, and motioned for a nearby guard to release Seth. The marten winced as blood rushed back into his paws and arms.

"Thank you," he bit out, rubbing his wrists.

"Hobo's wild." Finny grinned.

***

Seth liked gambling. Especially in dark, smoky rooms where dusky females in sparkly dresses leaned over the back of your overstuffed chair and blew luck onto your cards. They smelled nice, and if you got bored, you could always entertain yourself in... other ways.

It was not as pleasant when Gloria was standing behind his hard-backed, wooden chair breathing down his neck. And she smelled like sweat and blood. That wasn't very nice.

Seth stared at his cards: Eight of Fish, Three of Skulls.

"Hit me."

A card slid across the table.

Five of Shovels.

"Hit me."

Captain Ice Rain.

"'Gates."

Seth set his cards down.

"I thought ye were good at this, m'Lord." Gloria's voice was mocking.

"Would it be possible to make her leave?" Seth asked, staring at Finny.

Finny considered the request and then nodded. "I think that could be arranged." He nodded at a guard, and Gloria, protesting bitterly, was escorted out.

"The rest too?" Seth said hopefully.

Another pause and another nod. "Very well, the rest too. Clear the room!"

Within moments, the room was empty, leaving Seth and Finny alone with only the cards between them.

Finny dealt another round.

"So, what's the story?" he asked.

Seth picked up his cards. Two Captains.

"Whose?" he asked, setting his cards down.

"Yours," said Finny, taking two from the stack.

"Twenty," said Seth, showing his cards.

"Eighteen. Point." Finny displayed a five, three, nine, and Emperor.

The dealer shuffled the cards again. "Three more rounds, and your story."

Seth shrugged and watched the cards dance in the fox's paws.

"I was enlisted by my father as a common soldier."

"I heard Ruston call you Lieutenant."

"I was promoted."

"Who was your captain?"

Seth picked up his new cards. Phil the Hobo and a six of clubs.

"Her name was Steep," he replied quietly. "Priscilla."

"Heard of her. She still around?"

"No." Seth accepted another card.

"Pity. Would have liked to meet her."

"Twenny-Wah."

"Thirty."

"How's it stand?"

Finny consulted a row of scratches on the table's surface.

"You're beating me by one point," he said. Cards slid across the table.

Seth shifted in his chair. "She killed herself you know."

"The best one's usually do. Smoke?" Finny held out a cigar.

"Thanks."

Seth breathed in the heady aroma and glanced at his cards.

"What happened at Amarone?" Finny asked.

The marten shrugged. "It was discovered that the war was a cover for an exchange deal between the Imperium and the South. Ruston decided that was an act of mutiny against the country, so we killed practically everyone in charge, then exploded the palace with the Imperium's secret weapon."

"Effective."

"She thought so too."

"It also seems like it wiped out most of your army."

Seth set his cards down and stared at the surface of the table.

"A few escaped," he said finally. "It was terrible, of course, utterly terrible. Not that I cared much at the time."

Finny looked up sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

Seth looked uncomfortable and shrugged. "My regiment was made up of woodlanders who were secretly working for the SLA – a rabblerousing group in the South. When that was discovered, Captain Steep executed them all. Before I was transferred to Steep's regiment, I was with the rest of the army. I never formed any particularly endearing attachments."

A memory of Rotclaw shoving his head into the rainwater barrel surfaced and Seth made a face. "Perhaps I'm a worthless dolt, but all it came down to in the end was following orders. Depending on who gives the orders, soldiers live or die. I lived."

"But according to Ruston, you're soon to die."

"Seventeen," said Seth, showing his cards.

"Twenty. Tied."

Finny shuffled the cards. "What happens to you if I become Emperor?"

"I languish until somebeast sees fit to release me."

"And if I don't?"

"Ruston puts a rope around my neck and hangs me high from the gallows tree."

Finny slid a card towards Seth.

"Sounds rather gruesome either way."

There was a scuffling at the door. Finny looked up, annoyed. "I said we were to be left alone!"

It swung open, and Keinruf trotted through, carrying a crumpet in one paw, and sucking on the other. He made a beeline for Seth and clambered up on the older marten's lap.

Finny stared at him. "What're you doing with Alissa Wright's kit?"

Seth sighed and batted away the food that Keinruf was trying to feed him. "He's my kit too, apparently."

Finny blinked, and slid another card over to Seth. "Either you're extremely brave for saying that, or incredibly stupid."

Seth picked up his cards. Phil the Hobo, Admiral Vera. "Hit me. Why?"

Another card slid his way.

"Alissa Wright was well liked. When she had a kit and refused to say who the father was, there were a good many who were out for blood. Quite a few still are, especially since she's dead now."

Seth put his cards down. "Twenny-Wah, hobo as a ten."

Finny set his cards down. "Twenny-Wah. No wildcards."

Nothing happened.

Seth leaned back in his chair. He'd lost. He waited for the heavy feeling of dread to set in.

Nothing.

_I'm going to die._

Still nothing.

_I'll never see Sadie again._

He giggled.

Keinruf climbed up on the table and began playing with the cards, setting his crumpet down carefully.

Seth stood up and bowed.

"I'll just go tie myself up again, shall I?"

Finny waved a paw. "Not so fast. I won."

"Yes, which means that I die."

The fox stroked his chin. "Not necessarily. You said that if I won I get to do whatever I like."

Seth shrugged. "And?"

"Maybe I'd like to try being Emperor." He tugged at Keinruf's ear. The kit snapped at him. "And I think that perhaps letting you raise this little terror is punishment enough for being Alissa Wright's lover."

Seth sagged. Feeling was coming back now. His head hurt, and his paws were still sore.

Reaching over, Finny replaced Seth's Hobo with an Admiral, and put the Hobo in his own cards.

"Meier!" Finny yelled.

The weasel appeared. "Yes, chief?"

The fox motioned at the table, where cards plainly proclaimed Seth as the winner. "I think we can let everybeast back in now. Lady Luck has chosen."

Seth picked up Keinruf and licked his lips.

Finny looked at him and winked.

"You're welcome."

- Print this post -


	94. When the Dealin's Done

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 93. When the Dealin's Done  
**

_by Gloria  
_

"He _won_?" Gloria demanded, incredulity coating the words like molasses.

"You're welcome," Seth sneered.

"That preening prince beat the best Twenny-Wah dealer in Bully Harbour?"

"You flatter me," Finny returned, shrugging and motioning to his cards. "Lady Luck is a fickle femme. She chose this other fellow for some reason. Ah, well." Another shrug. "If I won every time, gambling would be terribly boring, wouldn't it, Captain?" His simple smile made her almost return the expression. She managed to resist.

"Well, fine," she tried to grumble, but the tone came out more neutral. What was there to be annoyed about? She was getting to lock Devonshire away for life, Finny had lost, they'd had no other casualties, and this rebellion was about to come to a close. "Ye'll b'come Emperor, then."

"I'm all-in," the fox agreed.

"Lady Akilina, ye'll need t'preform the coronation."

"What, here?" Finny asked. "In a teashop?"

"What's wrong with a teashop?" Gloria and Wazzock demanded in unison. The stoat shot the Navy captain a glare and he grinned back from his seat at one of the tables. The wearet, Urie, and another one she didn't recognize stood beside him. She really was spending entirely too much time with that rat.

"It will have to do," Akilina said, striding forward. "Do we have zomething to act az the crown – zeeing az you _idiotz_ blew up all of the royal jewelz?"

"Well, I have this," Wazzock offered, pulling a golden circlet set with three jade stones from inside his coat pocket. He sniffed it. "Sorry about the smell." Then, he licked. "Seems fresh enough, though."

"Wazzy... where did ye...?" Gloria recognized the crown of Prince Snottail the Ridiculous, the only prince in Imperium history to actually chop off his _own_ head when accosted by a mob of moderately-annoyed seamstresses displeased with his decision to mix magenta leggings with a yellow tunic*.

"Oh?" The rat glanced at the circlet, then blinked. "The statue-type fellow in the library didn't seem to be making much use of it, really, so I commandeered it." He giggled. "Hear that, Cy? I've been learning nautical terms."

"Have you learned about 'keelhauling' yet, Wazzy?"

"Ye _stole_ from the Imperial Palace at Amarone?" the Captain of the Guard snarled, stalking up and ripping the thing from Wazzock's paws. She brandished it at his face as she continued, "I could have ye hung for that, Wazzock Pike."

"A little perspective, Ms. Gloria," Wazzock said, wriggling his whiskers. "_You_ devised the means to blow up said palace."

The stoat's mouth opened. Then, she closed it when a suitable retort failed to materialize.

"Give that here," Akilina hissed, snatching the circlet. Gloria held on for a brief moment of pettiness, but let go when the minister's cold glare settled on her. "And your zword."

"What? Why?" The stoat placed a protective paw on the hilt of her weapon. She could understand taking the circlet, but-

"You are the highezt ranking offizer here with a zword," Akilina said, rolling her eyes. "I require one for the offiziation. Unlezz you would like the Emperor to rezieve the zword of another beazt..." She cast her reptilian gaze elsewhere, but Gloria was already pulling her blade from its sheath. She held it out, the point tickling the wrinkles on the lizard's throat, then she knelt and flipped the weapon in her paw, offering the hilt to the minister.

"Damage that blade, and ye'll regret it, m'Lady."

"I highly doubt that, Captain Ruzton," the lizard retorted, taking the hilt and swinging the sword over her shoulder haphazardly. "Finally, I require a regiztered notary. Iz there a beazt of that dezcription here?"

"I'm a registered notary," the stoat who had patched up Wazzock's footpaw stepped forward.

"Who are you?"

"Dr. Fantastic," he replied.

"Your _full_ name."

"Dr. Fantastic."

Akilina glared at him and flicked out her tongue. "What iz your firzt name?"

"Fantastic."

"And your zurname?"

"Fantastique."

Seth interjected, "You're named 'Fantastic Fantastic'? Are you trying to be funny?"

"'Fantastic Fantastic'? Oh, _goodness_ no!" the stoat cried, adjusting his spectacles. "That would be rather silly. It's Fantastic Fantas_tique_. My father's name. And my father's father's. I'm actually the 34th Fantastic Fantastique."

"All of your citizens are morons, Ruston."

Gloria rubbed her brow and closed her eyes. "I know."

"Fine," Akilina hissed, "you will do." She pulled from the folds of her robe, a scroll, quill, and bottle of ink. "I had my azziztant prepare a document on the way over from Amarone in caze something like thiz happened."

"You _expected_ this to happen?" Seth demanded. Gloria cuffed his wounded ear. "Wench."

"Brat."

"I expected uz to find a new emperor," Akilina hurried on. "Granted... I did not expect thiz zo quickly."

Dr. Fantastic unrolled the scroll and eyed it critically. "Right, so what happens now?"

"You will zign it," she said to Finny. "Then, I will zign it. Then, Captainz Ruzton and Pike az witnezzez. And finally, you will zign it, Doctor. Then, I will carry out the zeremony proper."

A few minutes passed as the quill was shuffled between paws. "This doesn't seem very dramatic," Wazzock observed as he put his mark to the line.

"Deal with it," Akilina advised.

Eventually, all the signatures were lined up and the scroll rolled up and passed to Finny for safe-keeping. He pawed it off to Treat Meier, who pawed it off to another weasel, who pawed it off to a wildcat, who pawed it off to another beast, and another, and another... Gloria suspected the scroll would never be seen again.

"Hear ye, hear ye, zitizenz of the Vulpine Imperium," Akilina called to the room at large. Finny knelt in front of her, and she placed the circlet on his head. "On thiz, the 31zt day of Primary in 1793, I, Acting-Emprezz Akilina of the Hezzezza Eztatez, recognize thiz creature, Anguz Finley Hrizt, az Emperor of the Vulpine Imperium." She hefted Gloria's sword and used it to touch each of the vulpine's shoulders. "Zuch az he ever waz, iz, and will be. Your Graze." Emperor Hrist rose as the lizard dropped to her scaly knees and hunched her back, prostrate before greatest beast in the Imperium and offering the sword to him. The meaning of the motion was clear: 'You are my Emperor, I kneel before you and relinquish my life. Cut off my head if I displease you, for there is no greater crime.'

Gloria dropped down as well. This was right. Bowing before an emperor and knowing that he was as dishonest as a Twenny-Wah dealer from the start was right. She knew it was ridiculous, as well. Finny was the same beast he was five minutes ago. All that had changed was a fancy piece of headgear and a title. Still, this was the Vulpine Imperium and her Emperor was forever a monarch, had forever been one.

The stoat could already feel the imposter, Voss, slipping to the back of her mind, just as Carmike had during Voss' coronation. _This is _right_._

She glanced at Wazzock and saw him still seated, but with his head tilted forward in a mock servility. _This _is_ right... Right?_ the stoat wondered, then nodded to herself. Whatever Wazzock's doubts, or Regi's, or Cynthia's, or any other beast's, this was what they knew, loved, and fought to protect... the right for every creature to be just as stupid as his father and his father's father.

The Vulpine Imperium: Nonsensical, steeped in archaic and fantastic ritual, filled with the dregs of society and the cream of the crop, and the only place Gloria Ruston, Regi Ruston, Wazzock Pike, and Cynthia Pike could call home.

A few seconds passed and Akilina coughed loudly. "The rebellion, Your Graze? What will we do about it, then?"

"The rebellion?" Emperor Hrist blinked, then straightened his circlet. "Yes, the rebellion. You, Captain Ruston." The fox pointed at her and she bent further toward the floor. Acknowledgement.

"Yes, Yer Grace?"

"I've decided that since... Er... Could you stand up?" he requested. "It's a bit awkward talking to your head."

The stoat rose. "M'apologies, Yer Grace, I meant no disrespect. Please forgive me."

"Ah, yes." The Emperor nodded, his tail twitching. "No problem, really. Fair dice to you, it's only proper, I'm sure. Anyway, I've decided that I'm going to need a Minister of War to escort me through the city in order to bring any... overly-exuberant revolutionaries under control. Since I'm fresh out of those – Ministers of War, that is – and you were Captain of the Guard anyway, you're hired."

"Y-yer Grace?" Gloria asked, frowning. Did he mean... No, he couldn't really be getting at that. There was no pomp and circumstance. No trumpets and speeches. No fancy _hors d'oeuvres_ and high tea at the Mayor's Estate. Just a little teashop and a dozen sets of eyes blinking at her.

"You're Minister of War... and Peace, I think it is," he said, walking over and returning her sword. "'Peace' being the important part at the moment. Congratulations... Ehm..."

"You cannot be zeriouz, Your Graze," Akilina interjected. "Gloria Ruzton iz unfit to command the fleaz on her own hide, let alone-"

"Ah, yes!" The Emperor cut the lizard off with a wave. "Gloria Ruston. Gray eyes and a hook... lost 2,000 Gilders on a split of 9's at Lord Rainblade's party, but you'd been doing well up 'til then. Well enough to still walk away with a profit. And you knew when to walk away." He smirked. "One of the few that night." Gloria sheathed her blade and the Emperor took her paw, shaking it. "I'm dealing you into my game, Gloria. As I always say: Have fun, don't fuss, and mind your chips, or somebeast else _will_."

He patted her on the back and turned to deal with a seething Akilina. The lady stoat stood for several seconds, unable to move. Wazzock limped over to a chair beside her with Urie and the other wearet's help and sat down.

"Good show, miss!" he praised. "He's a rather nice chap, eh? Much nicer than that Voss, fellow. I never trusted the chap... something about playing foreign games – billiards was what Cy called it. Seems downright evil. But a card game? Nothing more honest than a game of Twenny-Wah... Well, maybe a fish, but they have trouble talking. Then again, can a card game really talk? And it begs the question: Do fish talk at all? And if not, how do they go about teaching each other? They have all those schools, so you have to imagine they're learning _some_thing, but are they really being taught by _qualified_ fish if they can't even-"

"Wazzy, I'm Minister of War now. I could kill ye and nobeast could lift a paw t'stop me."

"But you won't."

"Oh, and why's that?"

"Because you owe me tea... and you love me."

"Aye." She snorted. "Like a shark loves a dolphin."

"You'd be surprised how well they can get along," the rat replied, "given the right set of circumstances. And tea."

"Tea makes everything better," the new wearet agreed.

"Who _are_ ye?"

"Oh, sorry!" Wazzock apologized. "Ms. Gloria, this is Lye. Lye, this is Ms. Gloria."

"His name is Pike, but he's not a fish," Lye informed her. Gloria eyed the thing suspiciously. It was bad enough having one of them about, but two...

"All right!" The Emperor clapped his paws. "We're moving out! Time to get things under control so we can have a nice dinner to celebrate my coronation. Gloria?"

"Ah..." She raised her paw, then put it back down again, feeling like a foolish kit in lessons. "May I request a moment with Lord Ruston, Yer Grace?"

"Eh? Your husband? Right. We'll be waiting outside. Don't be too long."

"No, Yer Grace. Thank ye, Yer Grace."

They began clearing out and Gloria approached Regi on the far side of the tearoom. After what seemed to be the last bang of the door, the stoat let a smile creep across her maw.

"I'm the Minister of War," she whispered, turning to Regi.

"Yes, dear." He nodded. "You might want to wait a momen-"

"He made me a minister." She bounced forward and embraced her husband.

"Oof!"

"I'm the MinoWar!" A kiss this time, hard, bending him backward over a table and not caring as teacups and saucers rattled under the sudden assault. "I'm the _Minister_ of War!" She shouted, pulling back for air and twirling around. "Hah!" All of the aches and pains in her body still hurt, but that simple fact made them all more bearable somehow.

"Gloria," Regi managed after a moment, propping himself up. "Gloria, that's quite nice, but you should really contain yourself."

"I can't do that, Regi, m'love," the lady stoat replied, grinning from ear-to-ear as she pulled him into another hug and rubbed her snout up and down his long neck. "Hahaha! It's what we've allus dreamed of – what we promised would happen! D'ye remember? I told Da', but I never thought... But I did it! I'm better than Da'. Hee! I beat him! I'm-"

The male stoat grabbed her muzzle between his paws and clamped it shut. "Dear, I rather think you should have a look around." She blinked at him, confused, but followed his advice, releasing him and glancing behind.

Wazzock, Urie, Lye, and Seth stared at them. Their expressions ran the continuum from sickly sweet, to pure disbelief, to confusion, to outright disgust. The new minister froze.

"D'aww," Wazzock cooed. "Please, don't stop on account of us, Ms. Gloria. You looked so-"

"AAAAHHH!" Seth screamed, making everybeast start. "Fair warning before a display like _that_ would have been nice, you know?" he continued at a perfectly reasonable volume.

"Get out of here!" Gloria commanded, stabbing her hook at them as a blush rose to her cheeks and burned hot up to her ears.

"Why don't you make us, Happy Boots?" Seth sniffed.

"Regi, darling," the lady stoat growled, "give us yer rapier."

- - -

"I'm scared, Wazzy," Urie mumbled, his fur bristling.

"Yes, that Ms. Gloria, she's, ah... _very_ persuasive when she-"

Gloria slammed the door of the teashop on the quartet and leaned up against it, working Regi's weapon free from her hook and tossing it back to the Blademaster.

"You're going to be in quite a bit of pain tomorrow for that, you know?"

"Aye." She sighed. "I'm not sure it'll make much difference, though, the state I'm in." Another sigh, then she smiled at him. "I'm a minister."

He grinned, his mustache lifting to reveal his stained fangs. They suited him – plaque that hid a decent sort of tooth beneath. "Yes, dear. You are." He walked over and used his arms to trap her against the door. He leaned forward, then paused the grin fading. Gloria smirked at his sudden reserve.

"Regi Ruston, are ye going shy on me?" she teased.

He kissed her. Surprised by the sudden move, it was all Gloria could do to maintain her footpaws and try to reciprocate. She counted out eight full seconds before they parted, panting. Regi nuzzled his snout below her chin.

"I miss this," he said, almost too soft to hear.

"What?" she asked, blinking. "Me beating up Wazzy? I owe him tea, so ye'll get a nice sh-" He pulled her into a hug, silencing her.

"This. Us." He squeezed just a little too tight for all her scrapes and bruises to be comfortable. Regi must have felt her twitching because he relaxed and pulled back. "I miss liking you, and you liking me. I miss writing love poems to you that you'd called stupid and scrunch up and toss in the trash... then sneak away and hide in the night." She opened her mouth to protest, but he placed a claw to her nose. "I found them. And _really_, Gloria? I'm an Unsmudgable. I _do_ read the books in the study on occasion, even the MinoInn's yearly manuals. They're just nonsensical enough to cleanse the mind after a hard day at the Museum.

"Anyway, I miss it, Gloria," he concluded. "I married you for money and prestige and because Mother and Father said to, but sometimes I loved you. _Love_ you. I guess it's taken me a bloody war to figure that out. When you wrote me from Amarone, I was scared, Gloria. Fates, I don't think I've ever been more scared in my life. You just seemed so... helpless. That's what was most terrifying."

"I miss it, too, Regi," Gloria replied, staring past him at the teashop. There had been a time when he'd held her paw, eighteen years to her ten, awkwardly introducing himself as she stared at him, through him with the eyes only a kit can have. Even with his tobacco-scented breath and too-old paws, she could see behind the plaque then. "But we can't go back, ye ken?"

"Why not?"

She let her gaze focus on him and smiled, not unkindly. "B'cause I like where we're at right now, love. Let's try t'keep it here and move forward." She stroked his cheek. "Better'n going back through the mess we've made of our lives, aye?"

Banging on the door interrupted whatever reply the male stoat would have made. "What are you two doing in there?" Akilina's voice hissed. "We have to deal with thiz rebellion, _Minizter_ Ruzton!"

Gloria and Regi's eyes met and they both snorted.

"She sounds like she swallowed the sweat off a grog-soaked Slurpee."

"Yes." Regi snickered. "Shall we see how her face looks to match?"

- - -

* It was agreed that the blood did _nothing_ to offset the hideousness of the other colors, but they gave him a posthumous 10-out-of-10 for effort.


	95. The NotSoGreat Escape

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 94. The Not-So-Great Escape  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

_You don't know what the future is going to hold. The future is that strange beast you see in the corner of a tavern that looks like one sort of beast, but turns out to be quite another. To more specific, rude dancing on your table._

But as strange and unexpected as the future may be, in the end, it does settle down and become a civil beast known as the present.

Presently, the Imperium has turned into that somewhat civil beast, but I'm not counting it out for rude things.

Ms. Gloria is fitting right into her new position, as if she were made to have it draped over her shoulders. Also, if rumors are correct, it appears she may have an egg coming soon. It seems when I was comparing her and Cy's tummy over tea that I heard similarities between the two. Regi's, however, was just gurgling because he missed lunch. All that work reorganizing the Ministry of Niceties, probably.

I didn't quite get to the topic I wanted over tea, though. I wanted to inquire about her decision to imprison all the remaining Southern Army beasts. But when I mentioned the topic, she accidently broke her tea cup and said some things I'd feel uncomfortable transcribing. She is still a little sensitive about them... Mr. Devonshire in particular.

I feel as if I need do something. It may anger Ms. Gloria. But then, I've never quite tried to please her, and it's worked out just fine. Just minor bouts of blood loss from time to time.

Wazzock clopped into the remains of the Bilge. Despite the establishment burning down, business was as vibrant as ever only one week after the official end of the Dragon War. Wazzock decided, in the long run, it was good that they had not decided to go with Gloria's suggestion of the 'Bloody Stupid War.'

Yet, though notes were being written on the event, the details were a little too fluid to be considered history just yet. They rippled with any given breeze, much smudging of ink occurring in the process. The heroes and villains of the adventure were still in the air, but then, that depended upon which side the history was being written by.

Wazzock liked the Bilge – burned out or not – not for the drink, but for the atmosphere. The Bilge held a certain mucky charm, the sort that growled when you prodded it with a stick. Only different from then and now, was that he actually had a stick with him. Not that he really needed it. He'd gotten quite used to the peg leg. A pity, really, that his boot had been destroyed and his footpaw infected. War came with loss.

He grinned when he saw his target at a far corner of the building ruins. He settled down on a charred stool across from the weasel and sat there a few moments, starting at the blur of cards flipped between the weasel's paws.

"What brings you here, Admiral Pike?"

"Please, call me Wazzy, Treat. I still have to figure out the difference between starboard and whatever the other direction is called before I can add the 'Admiral' part on."

"Of course. The great 'Wazzy,' the famed rat hero, fearless captain of the _Stormchaser_, Emperor-killer..."

"I keep saying that the Emperor killed himself. Nobeast seems to listen to me."

"That's the way stories go, Wazzy. Beasts don't choose the true story, they choose the _good_ story. And you defeating a devious Emperor sounds much better in drunken tales."

"Drunken tails are a leading cause of tripping beasties up," Wazzock said, reverently. "Where are your cardmates?"

"Ah, the rest of the Trumps? They're beasts with expressions so unreadable that they're rarely even seen. Which is to say: unless there is wager to be made, they aren't around to make a gamble."

"Yes, about that." The rat pulled out a card from within his coat and placed it on the table.

"Ah, so you want to make a bet with long odds?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Long enough."

"I'm in. How about you fellows?"

"All-in!" came the response from the rest of the creatures in the Bilge.

"How many beasts are in the Trumps again."

"Tut, tut, Wazzy. One never reveals his paw until the right moment."

"And why are you taking the prisoners?"

"We are taking them to a more secure location."

The fox guard scoffed, "That's a laugh. This be the most fortified location in all of the Imperium. You think I'm going to take that moldy fish and gnaw it? I'm going to expect something a might more smoked." With that, the vulpine slammed the small slit on the metal door shut.

Treat pulled down his dark hood. "That didn't work as planned."

Wazzock kept his own hood on. He noted the bared windows, the heavy wood walls, battle-scarred and yet not a day closer to falling in after countless seasons of abuse. "The fox does have a point. The Stoatorian Guard has a certain flair when it comes to being secure. I think I spy concealed spikes on those windows."

"Our ride will be here any moment. We need to get those beasts out now. The odds are getting longer, Wazzy."

"Pa always said there was more than one way to fillet a fish. Said the same thing about mice, too, during that one suspect dinner, to be exact... with the oddly shaped gull carcass..."

"Point being?"

"Pull up your hood."

Wazzock rapped at the door. The slit door slid opened, and the fox's eyes glowed in the faint lamplight filtering through the fog.

"Well, chap. Seems like you've caught us. We're not taking the prisoners to another location. We're killing them. Horribly. Under the MinoWar's orders."

"Minister Ruston?"

"Yes, she'd be here herself, but you know, since she's in a higher command, she's unable to muddy her paws with such trivial affairs. But no worries, we've been given notes and diagrams so that we would be able to carry out her sense of pain to the T. Speaking of which, do you have any tea?"

Treat smacked Wazzock across the back of the head.

"For torturing. Have you ever had scalding tea poured down your throat?"

The fox shook his head.

"Devine on a cold winter's night, but quite horrifying when done..." Wazzock leaned closer, adding in a dark growl, "without scones."

Without further delay, the fox opened the door. "Ah, torturers. I should have known. Nice to know those Southies have what's coming to them."

"So, are you alone on the guard this evening?"

"Yes, you see Scar-"

Wazzock knocked the fox out with his club.

Treat whistled. "Thought you were going to lead him on for a bit there," he said, leaning down to inspect the body.

"I'd get queasy if I had to actually describe torture methods."

"Says the creature who is rumored to have had the late Emperor's paw stuffed and mounted."

"I thought it made a charming door handle. Makes me think I'm shaking somebeast's paw whenever I leave the house."

"It doesn't seem this creature has any keys."

"Perhaps he fell on them. Look under his tail."

"I'm not a doctor."

"I knew I should have asked Dr. F to come along."

"Well, let's find the prisoners and go from there."

The found them, all right. All the remaining Southern Army Forces, downtrodden in these cells, their very souls seeming to be at risk of dribbling out of their noses. At least they were all in one cell, that made things easier. If only Wazzock had taken that lock-picking course along with the juggling and pick-pocketing. He still didn't regret it because the pie baking class had been highly worthwhile for his tummy.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, Mr. Devonshire. Very good to see you."

The marten glared at him. "What, did you run out of tea at the palace and Lady Ruston sent you here to provide her with more... interesting entertainment?"

"Ah, I shall assume that your sentiments are the same. You wouldn't know where the key for your cell is, would you?"

"I believe on the belt of the head prison guard is the usual-"

"No? Mmm, will just have to make some use of this bench, then. Come over here, Treat, need some leverage."

The dozing Southern beasts were soon rousing, and gathered to see what these two strange hooded beasts were doing. Wazzock stuck the bottom two spokes of the bench under the metal door of the cell. He wiggled it in until it was nice and jammed, gave it a practice yank, and then nodded to Treat. "That should work. But need to do one thing."

He turned to the Southern beasts, who were now all staring at him. "We are currently doing something highly illegal. If Minister Ruston finds out what I am doing, my last name will be fitting, for that's where my head may be. I doubt she would stoop to such poetic justice. though. Now, if you want to live, you will file out quietly after I get this door open. No cheers. No ditties. No eating any conveniently placed non-fish fish sticks. Understood?"

The creatures nodded dumbly.

"Very well. Pull!" The weasel and rat pulled their weight on the bench, and with a metallic snap, the door came free of its hinges. For being a few dozen creatures, they made their way to the exit with little fanfare. Wazzock pulled Seth to the side as they made their way outside.

"Now, chap, you stick with me."

"Do I have to? You might force tea upon me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Devonshire. You're a good chap."

"And you're an idiot."

"Why, thank you." By this point, being around Gloria and Cynthia had conditioned Wazzock to consider the term 'idiot' as a term of endearment bandied about between friends. This opinion didn't serve him well in taverns, but at least gave him a much better view of otherwise unscrupulous beasts.

A clattering came from down the street, and soon a carriage and cart emerged from the fog, each being pulled by a wearet. Urie pulling the carriage, Lye pulling the cart.

"Mateys, split between the two modes of transportation. Most of you shall be on the cart. Seth, please accompany me. We shall split up and meet at the docks. Further instructions shall be waiting for you there. Treat here will accompany the cart, I shall take care of the carriage."

"Is that the Imperial carriage?" Seth ventured.

Wazzock winked. "Ah, never underestimate the depth of agreements between fellow tea drinkers. The new Emperor is quite a smashing fellow."

"Splendid! Not only have you organized this... whatever this is, you've stolen the Emperor's carriage."

"Let us mount…"

"Mount?" Lye and Urie asked in unison, ears perking.

"…upon our vehicles." Wazzock finished, eyeing the two suddenly-excited wearets, who sank down onto all four paws again when they heard the context. "I believe it's almost spring," Wazzock whispered to Seth as he pushed him into the carriage. He tipped his hat to the marten driver. "We may proceed, Mr. Wright."

"Will do, Admiral."

Cynthia waited for them within the carriage, a wriggling bundle in her arms, along with another creature, draped in a velvet cape and dark glasses. "Cy, Emperor, glad you could join us."

"I really couldn't miss a good game going down," the Imperial vulpine confessed. "So, what's the next round to be dealt? You do realize there are going to be patrols all over the town? On my orders, at that."

"We took that into account. Actually, I took that into account," Cynthia said, and Wazzock could see the devious smile even in the darkness.

"Speaking of which, you didn't take too much into account, did you?"

"Of course not. I was very conservative in my accounting."

"Not too many gilders?"

"Just a pouch or two."

"What in Vulpuz are you beasts babbling about?"

Wazzock glanced out the window of the carriage. "Wait, where did you set up the bank?"

"Just down Wolfbite Lane near the corner of Kinguisse Street… Why?"

"The abandoned pawblaster warehouse?" the Emperor asked.

Wazzock stuck his head out the window. "Urie! Take the next right!"

"Right?"

"Right!"

"There is no right."

"The next right!"

"Are you certain you don't want to go left?"

"Urie, please… oh, 'Gates," Wazzock said as he saw the warehouse pass by. The trigger had been set for a patrol. It had been a long string placed across the street, not meant to cause any harm, really, just to cause a distraction. What was certainly not meant, was the carriage to be going right down the street where this string was placed.

The explosion of sparks and fire was slightly larger than expected. Squeaking, hissing, cracking, snapping, all in succession and at once, coming from every corner of the warehouse, a place where buglers had long since skipped from visiting due to any who entered being found as an ashy lump by Fogey Investigations. Now, it blared into the foggy night. Urie swiveled to the right, all beasts in the carriage being thrown to one side and then the other as it hit and dragged against storefronts, Urie trying to regain his balance and senses.

The Emperor was the first to get to the window and stare back at the destruction behind them. "Ah, I can see why you destroyed the palace if it caused that sort of show."

"One cannot deny the shininess," Cynthia confirmed.

"You're all mad."

"We're all quite happy, Mr. Devonshire. Now, the reason for us taking you in this carriage is quite simple. Cy, please paw over the package."

The scarf wrapped bundle was pressed into Seth's paws. The marten looked down, bewildered, until the bundle produced two fuzzy arms and hugged him around the middle.  
"Keinruf?"

"Yes, quite sorry he was separated from you, but even Ms. Gloria could not bring herself to send a cute marten kit into the clank. He's been quite well cared for."

"Wazzock keeps sneaking him sweets."

"Little beasties need to be spoiled before life gets all mucky, Cy."

"That sucker was the size of Keinruf."

"It was meant to be taken in stages."

"Almost had to shave his tail to get him lo-"

"Anyway, Mr. Devonshire, I think you are a fine chap. In fact, I believe all your fellow Southern creatures are fine chaps. If it weren't for borders and politics, I think things would go swimmingly. But, as it is..." He let the words fade off and paws spread out, as if the ideas were beyond vocalizing.

"As Admiral Pike was saying, I can relate to your situation, and though I can't spot you any chips right now, I'm letting you take the chips you have and run," Emperor Hrist added. "You beasts just happened to have been dealt the wrong deck for this particular game."

"You're even better than Treat with your card analogies."

"Who do you think taught him?"

"I'd pick up some phrases but I prefer fish metaphors."

The carriage came to a stop. Wazzock pulled up his hood and climbed out. He helped Seth and Keinruf. "Final stop, chaps. Let's get to the ship."

He led them across the soggy docks to a gangplank, which led to a ship, the _Stormchaser_, awaiting her next adventure. Wazzock smiled to see her form. A weasel waited for them at the end of the gangplank. Jericho saluted as they neared.

"Admiral Wazzock, all Southern creatures are on board, and all crew are prepared to set sail."

"Thank you, Captain Jericho. You're taking good care of her? Swabbing her decks properly?"

"Of course, Admiral."

"Now, Mr. Devonshire, Captain Jericho will take smashing care of you and your mates. He will be delivering you to neutral waters and transferring you to a previously-arranged Southern ship. I hope you have a grand trip."

Seth turned to look at Wazzock. "What's in this for you? Not one of those soldiers will ever get to repay you, and the only thing Lady Ruston will give you is trouble." He paused, and looked at the ground and shuffled his feet. "I mean," he said finally, "thank you... I think." He looked up, and the half-lidded bored expression that had almost completely vanished returned. "By the way, you should get a new hat. That one doesn't suit you at all. In fact, it's ugly. And for Fate's sake, sir, don't use feathers from beasts you knew. It's disturbing."

Wazzock carefully took Keinruf from Seth's grasp and pawed the marten kit over to Jericho. He took Seth by the shoulders and brought his peg leg up, fast and hard. Seth fell over, wheezing. Wazzock whistled and two crewbeasts came down the gangplank. "Please take Mr. Devonshire to his cabin." With little struggle, they took the still gasping Seth and brought him onto the _Stormchaser_.

Wazzock turned to Keinruf, ruffling the marten's ears. "That was a low blow, little Ruffy. And never do it unless in dire circumstances. Or if a beast needs some good sense given to him. You have a good evening, Ruffy. Captain Jericho you may proceed."

"You're not coming, Admiral? I don't believe Minister Ruston will be very happy when she finds out what you've done."

Wazzock took a longing look at the _Stormchaser_. He glanced back at the carriage.

"No, Captain Jericho, I have some eggs coming. I'll have to take the risk."


	96. Proud of Her Scars

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 95. Proud of Her Scars and the Battles She's Lost  
**

_by Gloria  
_

"Something interesting happened yesterday, Wazzy," Gloria mentioned as she and Wazzock found their repose within the confines of Mrs. Gertrude Dirgesong's House of Tea.

"Oh?" the rat asked. "And what would that be? Haven't had two ticks or a tock to peek at the papers today – all this new work admiraling. Did you know that ships can travel against the wind if they trim their sails correctly? How novel! And here I thought I'd have to ask Mr. Switch – Oh! Pardon. Colonel Arbach. – to invent some sort of new propulsion for us."

"Aye." The stoat ignored his rambling as she set her tea aside and fixed him with a glare. "Seems some beasties broke int' the offices of the Stoatorian Guard under _my_ authority and released that foreign scum we've been keeping locked away."

"Now why would you order that, Ms. Gloria?" he wondered, taking a sip from his cup.

"I wouldn't."

"Oh. Yes, it _does_ seem a dash strange, you ordering the release of prisoners. Fancy that. Curious things going on in the Harb-"

The MinoWar sent his teacup flying with a well-placed punch. Without waiting for him to recover, and ignoring the gasps of the other patrons, she lunged over the table. Grasping the front of Wazzock's coat, she pulled him up 'til they were muzzle-to-muzzle... and growled.

"Is this where you kiss me, Ms. Gloria?" he queried, no humor in his tone. She slashed his face open with her hook – nothing deep, but enough to warrant attention. "That was another option."

"I know it was ye, Wazzy," she snarled, her spittle spraying across his whiskers. "The _Stormchaser_ set out a day ahead of schedule-"

"Did they? Eager chaps."

"-the Imperial carriage was stolen-"

"Quite the grand escape."

"-Keinruf Wright's gone missing-"

"That's a shame. Pleasant little chap."

"-the wearets, Urie and Lye, have disappeared-"

"I understand spring is coming. I'm sure they'll turn up eventually."

"-the warehouse district exploded-"

"That seems to be happening a lot these days. Do you think my hat is unlucky?"

"-the traitors who released the Southies threatened tea-torture-"

"Is that like tea-deprivation? What an obscenely horrifying idea."

"-and I received a message from m'brother Rudd about _you_, and yer moonlighting activities, _Admiral_."

"Ah."

"Ah," she agreed. "How could ye do this, Wazzy? After all the trouble they caused, ye whisk 'em away home?" Gloria lowered her voice. "And how d'ye think it makes _me_ look? A new MinoWar who can't even keep track of _prisoners of war_... Ye've painted a fine target on m'back for that otter-kissing Akilina t'shoot at, ye have."

"That hadn't occurred to me," he admitted.

"No, and it never would." The lady stoat snorted, releasing him and shoving him back so that he had to flail for a grip to avoid toppling over. She hopped off the table and returned to her own seat. The teashop went back to its quiet chatter.

"I'm sorry it's causing you a bit of bother, miss," he apologized, "but I couldn't let them just rot. Those chaps had nothing to do with the war. They were victims, the same as you and me."

"I know." A sigh of resignation. _Curse Vulpuz and his reasons._

"It was all those chaps above our heads who were scurrying about in the dark – lanterns hooded and tails switching."

"I know." She added a growl of warning.

"And that Devonshire fellow... quite the upstart, but he's a father, Ms. Gloria. Kits are meant to be with their fathers. Except that one fellow from the old nursery tale who fed his kits to dragons. And given current events, I suppose that's even more relev-"

"I _know_, Wazzy!" Gloria slammed her paw down on the table. The teashop went silent again, then resumed its _chink_ and _tlik_. "I know." She shook her head again, but a smile touched her maw. "Why d'ye think I'm not hauling ye off t'the gallows now? I hate ye, Wazzy. Yer a traitor, and I should kill ye."

"But...?" he supplied. She threw the sugar bowl at his head, but he managed to dodge. The wildcat at the next table wasn't quite as spry. An impressive yowl followed, but the creature knew better than to take issue with the MinoWar and an Admiral of the Fleet.

"But," she continued glancing away, then back, staring him straight in the eye, "mebbe being a traitor now and again is all right. Da' allus taught me I should kill traitors without a second thought. 'The Imperium comes first, Gloria.' I should protect it no matter the consequences. I even had Pylaris tortured t'death b'cause I believe that. He deserved it," Gloria added as the rat opened his mouth to reply. "Even if he was just another pawn in all this, he b'trayed _everything_ I believe in, everything I am. But I still feel..."

"My Pa told me that love is like a shark in your hold," Wazzock picked up. "Fantastic to behold, terrifying to dance with, and like as not to eat your face. Even when you're rid of it, you can tell it's been there – tail trashing about and all that gnashing of teeth. Did you know gnashing is spelled with a 'g'? How odd. Anyway, it's hard to forget the shark, even if you hate him, and he's long gone."

She gave an exasperated snort. "Aye. But shark or pike or dolphin, he was the sort of traitor I could never forgive. You, though, Wazzy... Setting Devonshire free was illegal, traitorous, _completely_ wrong, but I ken... I ken it was _right_, too." She crossed her arms and glared at the mess she'd made of their table. "Da' should be rolling in his grave just about now."

Wazzock smirked. "And I'm glad of it, Ms. Gloria. Maybe... maybe I could stand to live in an Imperium where the beasts realize that it's all right to be a little wrong sometimes."

"I'll drink t'that." She went to raise her teacup, but it was lying in pieces on the floor. "Oi!" the stoat waved her paw to flag down one of the staff. "What does it take for the MinoWar t'get a bit of service around here?"

"You're so very you, Ms. Gloria," the rat admiral observed. "From your whiskers to your tail."

"Hmm?" She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"And I'm proud of you, miss. I don't believe I ever told you in all the madness. I'm so _very_ proud of you."

A peculiar feeling crept over her as she lowered her paw and turned to look at him. He smiled at her, his nose twitching and creases collecting around his eyes. _He's... being honest._ The feeling spread from her stomach and up toward her face. She smiled back. _Is this what it would've felt like with Da'?_ The moment stretched out. Then, she grabbed the teapot from the server who had just brought it over and smashed it across Wazzock's snout.

He plunged from his seat and crashed onto the floor along with his chair and the pot. "I'm proud of ye too, ye squawk-eyed traitor." She rose from her seat and strode toward the door.

"Are you all right, Admiral?" the minister heard the server squeaking as she moved to help the crippled rat on the floor.

"Oh, yes! I'm peachy," Wazzock assured her. "That's just her way of showing affection, you know. Same time next week, Ms. Gloria?" he called.

"Aye, Wazzy." She pulled open the door, a grin tugging at her whiskers. "The same as allus."

- - -

_**MinoWar's Log – 31 Primary 1793**_

I've promoted Lieutenant Cynthia Pike to Captain of the Stoatorian Guard for her brilliant work in disarming the whole of Zann's Backyard. I have likewise promoted the messenger Fermia to my personal assistant for finally explaining to me why 'Rusty' is a funny name. I also would like to promote Mr. Kaleb Gotalmo for this fantastic wine he's managed to procure for the Emperor's coronation.

I have never been more drunk!

And I'm Minister of War!

And this is going to be the hangover from Vulpuz himself!

- Gloria

**MinoWar's Log – 12 Frimary 1793**

We restored order to Bully Harbour last week with the assistance of the remaining Stoatorian Guard, Unsmudgables, Fogeys, Wotfers, MAUL, and Trumps. The Dragon War, barely a month in length, has destroyed my city. My mansion lays in ruin. All of the factions and criminal organizations are in shambles. The Navy has commandeered the civilian docks. Non-Fish Fishstick sales are at an all time low. The Opera House actually put on a good performance. And I haven't had a drop of tea today. This is not my_ Bully Harbour._

Taxes and assistance have been pouring in from the other Imperial cities. Even those fluff-tailed, bark-eating woodlanders from East Tookumberry Key have suspended their tariffs to help us. They fear a poor and hungry vermin empire more than a well-fed, well-soused one. Clever lot, that... when the moment moves them.

His Grace promoted Bait N. Switch V to the post of Minister of Innovations. I suspect we're all doomed with that posting, but he can't be any worse than the previous Colonel Arbach. A certain Mr. Crondie has been chosen to fill the role of Minister of Commerce, as well. I don't trust him. He's entirely too fond of muffins.

-Gloria Ruston

**MinoWar's Log – 19 Smarch 1793**

The Imperial Docks are under construction, as well as half the Harbour. The Slurpees seem glad of the work, and the taverns and casinos certainly are. Easy come, easy go the Gilders.

MinoNice Ruston and I have contributed a rather significant sum to rebuilding the Docks. It is my hope that that lousy, mange-ridden, burr-ta Admiral Jelliko will sod off and d refrain from addressing me as 'Flaming Idiot' around the Red Herring should I assist monetarily in this matter. His Grace seems to find it an amusing nickname, though. So I tolerate it for the time being.

Writing of His Grace – long may he reign – Emperor Hrist has decided to remain at Bully Harbour for the foreseeable future. He summed up his position over tea yesterday: 'A dealer doesn't leave his table when the players are grumbling. That's a sure way to lose what trust you have'. I have to say his gambling metaphors often escape me, but in this case, he's right. Bully Harbour might be losing money right now, but better the poker table with high stakes and good returns here, than the slots in Amar (Fates save me. He's worse than Wazzock!)

- Gloria Ruston

**From the Imperial Museum's "Four Seasons" exhibit – 9 Merry 1793**

Life in the rushing, the revels, retold  
in starlight, bright silver, and wheat, simple gold.  
A season now gone, a season now born,  
a season upon us by flower and thorn.

A season has passed since the Dragon, he came,  
Set fire our fields, our houses, our names.  
And yet in the ashes, the dust dark as coal,  
we find still our strength and hold fast our goal.

In kindred and kind we drove him away,  
our lads and our lasses, a high price to pay  
for the knaves we found in the ranks of our knights  
who swore to protect us by craft and by might.

Still now, there's one beast, or maybe a few,  
who honored their mission – as a vermin can do.  
We took off our caps to these loyal souls  
and named them our leaders to make Bully whole.

A Dragon came here and tore down our lives  
but seasons will come, as beasts surely die,  
when all is returned by right or by force –  
for there's only one way, and time is its course.

"The Arrow" – Gerard Reginald Ruston__

**MinoWar's Log – 22 Humidor 1793**

I'll have to take a break soon from the Ministry of War offices. This gut is getting to be a bother on me, and I'm going to go mad if I have to spend another day in my office doing nothing but paperwork. Our new mansion is far from complete, but the house agrees with me – right next to the Marketplace and a stone's throw from my favorite teashop.

We've had word from the Southern Empire. They'll be licking their wounds with their tails tucked betwixt their legs for a good time to come. Serves them right, the foreign fops.

I think these kits will come soon. Wazzy's already named his ratlings. I can only thank the Fates and the might of the Emperor that he hasn't tried to substitute their diets with tea yet. Cynthia might be helping with that... bloody annoying git of a Guard Captain that she is.

- Gloria Ruston

- - -

"Hah hah..." Gloria panted, the blankets she lay on already drenched in her sweat. The world, too large over the past nine months, had narrowed to Regi and the midwife, a ratmum who stood quietly near her footpaws. Regi grasped the lady stoat's paw and knelt by her head.

"That's it, Gloria," Regi urged. "Now push. I said push! Push, Gloria!"

She ripped her paw free from his slick grasp, twisted it into the loose fabric of his shirt front, and dragged him forward. "I've done this... _hah hah_... _twice_ already thanks t'_you_, ye bleeding, scum-nosed, twiddle-pawed, otter-loving, gull-kissing, dandified blaggard! Don't ye _dare_ tell me... _hah hah_... how it's done!" She shoved him away and moaned as another contraction shot pain through her groin and up her spine.

"I'm only trying to help," the male stoat muttered, sitting back up and frowning. "And as I recall, you didn't mind my contributions to this little matter a few months ago. In fact you were-" Gloria's jaw set and her paw flew out, snatching the left side if Regi's mustache. "G-Gloria... what are you do-_Ayyyyiiii_!"

Half of his mustache came away with a vicious rip. "I _hate_ ye, Gerard Reginald Ruston!"

- - -

"How d'they look, Regi," the Gloria asked some hours later. "Are they handsome?"

Her husband twitched his whiskers, swishing the half of his mustache that was still present. "They're as pink as ever."

"Hah..." Gloria let her head flop back on the pillow. It smelled – _she_ smelled – but she didn't much care. It was finally over. "I ken they're s'posed t'look like that if the others are any indication. Whiskers all there? Snouts? Paws and claws?"

Regi considered the blanket-wrapped bundles the midwife had offered him not five minutes ago. "They look... healthy enough, I suppose, dear. Wet noses and black-tipped tails."

He walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, offering one of the newborns to Gloria. She accepted it and sighed contentedly. Seven hours of screaming obscenities and cursing Regi to the hottest fires of Hellgates was worth this moment.

"What are we going to call them?" the male stoat wondered. "Shall we name one after Wazzock? Good sport about everything, and there was that daughter of his that he..." Wisely, Regi cut himself off as she sized up the distance between her hook and his face. "After the great Ministers of War it is!"

"Indeed..." the current MinoWar continued to eye her husband for a moment, then looked back at the kit in her arms – a lad. "This one," she said, prodding the kit's cheek – his muzzle immediately nudged over and he began to suck on her hook, "after Lord Bladedart. Kenshin."

"Kenshin," Regi echoed. "Kenshin... Leopold?"

"No." Gloria shook her head. "I'll not have m'Da' ruining this pair. We're doing it diff'rent this time, Regi. We promised." She held his gaze for a moment, then looked back down at Kenshin.

"Yes. Different. Kenshin _Finley_ Ruston."

The lady stoat glanced up with a smirk. "His Grace will be pleased, I wager."

"I wouldn't wager with the Emperor, dear – not for a width of a claw or the length of a badger," he quipped. "But what about this little lass?" He raised the other kit so Gloria could see her daughter's face.

"Vulpera." Sleepy gray eyes stared at her from a too-small face. "V'era."

"V'era... Marie? Vulpera Marie Ruston." He nodded. "Do you think we're being too sentimental?"

Gloria smiled again and passed Kenshin back to Regi. "Aye, 's why I'll tell ye now: We're not having a nursemaid for these."

"What?"

"We're doing this diff'rent, Regi," she told him. "No nursemaids t'rot their wee heads and run their noses int' the ground. _We'll_ be minding their education, aye?"

"Yes, that's all well and good," he agreed. "But you're Minister of War, Gloria, and I'm Minister of Niceties. We haven't the time."

"We'll make the time."

"You're being rather stubborn, de-" Her paw snapped out and captured the remaining half of his mustache. "All right. All right. I suppose we can arrange something."

She loosened her paw, but didn't let go. "Have I told ye how fine ye are t'yer wife, Regi Ruston? Terrible demanding that one."

A small smile spread across his features to match hers. "She is, isn't she? And I don't believe you have."

"And have I told ye...?"

"Told me what?" the male prompted, leaning in.

Gloria's maw split to reveal her full set of cracked teeth. "Ye look daft with half a mustache." She yanked with all her might.

"_Ayyyyiii_!"


	97. A Tale Unfolds

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 96. A Tale Unfolds  
**

_by Wazzock  
_

Wazzock stumbled out of the Captain's Quarters with a bloody nose and a wide smile on his maw.

Captain Jericho looked the rat admiral up and down before commenting, "So, egg-laying is going well."

The rat grabbed the weasel by the shoulders. "By 'Gates it is! Quite the smashing ordeal. Cy is dealing with it swimmingly. You wouldn't happen to have a handkerchief, would you?"

The weasel wordlessly produced one.

"Only seems right it would happen on the _Stormchaser_. What are the chances?"

"Er… Didn't you _bring_ Cap'n Cynthia here when she said they were coming, sir?"

"Certainly not! You know how confusing the streets of Bully are. This just happened to be the closest available venue to conduct this miracle."

Jericho wanted to say something along the lines of: 'The hospital was less than a block away. In fact, if you'd turned south, you could have clearly seen it just down the docks.', but he knew better than to comment on such things with Admiral Wazzock.

"So, Dr. F…?"

"Is doing fantastically, if you'll pardon the pun. Did you know he has a special mask for these procedures? He says it keeps him from breaking his jaw. Ooo, do you still have my mop?"

Jericho pointed to a compartment next to the door of the Captain's Quarter's. Wazzock scampered over and dug out the mop and bucket. He dunked the bucket in a rain barrel to fill it to the brim, then carried it to the center of the deck. He dunked the mop head into the water and then slopped it onto the grim-encrusted planks of wood. No matter how long anybeast scrubbed it, the _Stormchaser_'s deck would retain its layers of salt-scented memories forever. Wazzock knew this all too well, though went at it with his usual passion, swirling around as he mopped, dancing across the soggy wood, letting his feelings flow into the process.

The weasel captain watched patiently.

"I think that the first mate Mikkel is enjoying it too," Wazzock related. "She's lending moral support, being a rat lass and all. Who would have thunk that she was a lass after all. Pity about her brother, though. Still, Bully happens. You know, the Bully has grown on me a dash. Then again, things be changing about. Not much, mind you... just little bits. Nice to have an Emperor that takes some chances. Though he really gets mad when I beat him in Prodder – says I'm unreadable and I need to stop smiling. But I can't help it. The Weasel Jacks always make me snicker. They have these funny hats… Well, I best get back to the missus. I believe my snout has stopped bleeding enough."

He pawed the mop stick over to Jericho and scampered back at a four-pawed run to the door, briefly letting some colorful language of Captain Cynthia sneak through. Jericho smiled and started mopping.

O O O

"It was a completely smashing explosion. It was if the palace was a creature rising from the depths of Hellgates, its burning claws ripping and tearing upward, trying to escape, the world falling apart in its wake, and its jaws gnashing through reality, clutching for the souls of the world…."

"Wazzock. Yer going t'give 'em nightmares."

"Posh, Ms. Gloria! These are the same sort of stories that my pa told me as a ratling."

"It's not yer kits I'm worried, ye self-important lout." She pointed at the wide-eyed Vulpera and Kenshin.

"I'm sure they have just as tough of hides as my little Rusty," Wazzock said, tickling the footpaws of one of his four ratlings.

"…I hate ye."

"You know, whenever you say that, I…"

"If ye say that's how ye know I care…"

"May I get back to the story then?"

"Yes, please do. You were at the bit about the Hellgates-spawn imagery."

"Thank you, Regi. Now, the fur had been singed off our tails – Well, from Seth and Gloria, and I guess Pip had tailfeathers – but we escaped. Being knocked from our footpaws by the beast's final bellowing roar – Well, in Pip's case, it was talons, but it's for the sake of narrative flow… Oh, and before I forget, I scheduled a peace talk with the South for the afternoon before the new moon – we looked out upon the chaos and-"

A teacup bounced off his snout, leaving him dripping in the hot beverage. He stuck out his tongue to catch a few precious drops before responding. "I'm sorry. Do you have something scheduled for that time? I have all the proper papers for the occasion, and the _Stormchaser_ is waiting to bring us all forth…"

"I should've let ye hang."

"Ah, I've done that before. To get properly dry, you see."

"Ye treasonous _rat_!"

"Ah, no need for the language." Wazzock's ratlings, being prepared for such occasions, stuck paws in ears. Except for Rusty Pike, who covered his mouth. "It's been how many years, Cy?"

She counted them off on her paw. "Two."

"Ye knew about this?" Gloria demanded, scowling at the lady rat. "Yer m'Cap'n! Ye answer t'_me_, Cynthia."

"Oh, I gave Wazzy a few good wallops when he told me of this too. Unfortunate that he's good at being a punching bag. Relieves the stress and gives him enough time to make sense."

The way 'relieves the stress' was said caused Wazzock's tail to twitch.

"Put down the butter knife, Gloria," Regi put in. "Wazzock's been scarred enough."

"Now, I've discussed this with the other ministers. They are quite fine with the arrangement. Though, no offense, we decided it was best to tell you at the last moment because…well…"

"Ye were in on it, too?" Gloria glared daggers at her husband.

"We didn't want you to plot ripping the Southern Emperor's neck out," the MinoNice offered.

"A slightly more violent example than I was going for, but quite right, Regi. Not that I'd imagine you'd rip out anybeast's throat, Ms. Gloria... Unless there was good reason."

"I wouldn't lay coin on it."

"Reminds me... Also got Emperor Hrist in on the deal. Says the Imperium needs to be loaned some chips to raise the stakes. He appears to be rubbing off on me. I met up with him at the palace in Amarone. The progress is going smashing. He said you would be just the stoat to discuss peace with the Southern Empire."

"'Gates I would."

"Now, Gloria," Wazzock said, limping around to stand behind the ratlings and kits, "just think of the wee beasties. Rusty, Sorry, Krill, Nem, and your likkle V'era and Kenshi. Just think about them growing up in a world held together by licorice." With that he pulled out some and pawed it out to the young creatures, who nibbled at the black sticks with a impressive vigor. "…And peace," he added on the end.

"You really must stop giving them candy, Wazzy."

"It builds character, Cy."

"Sugar-fueled character," Regi said with a sigh. "May I have one?"

"Certainly."

"I don't think ye unnerstand, Wazzy. I'll _not_ be making a peace arrangement with those Southies."

"In that case, I've been given permission to do so myself. Saying many things, which will come from under your title, since I shall be representing the Imperium and there is peace involved. Since 'Peace' is in your title, the words, in turn, will be yours, even though they will be mine. I have a note from the Emperor."

Wazzock could almost see the embers catch the straw on fire behind Gloria's eyes as she realized the full extent of what Wazzock had said. He smiled as the fury grew and then subsided. "I'll go," she growled. "Bloody git."


	98. The Highway Man Went Riding

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "The Emperor's Decree II" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 97. The Highway Man Went Riding  
**

_by Seth  
_

"Not the face!"

Seth ducked out of the way of a fox's punch, only to walk into a ferret's footpaw that was, unfortunately, aimed at his stomach. Doubled over, gasping for breath, the former fox's second punch found its mark on the side of Seth's face. As he went down, he could hear the jingle of coins changing paws.

"What's all this, then?" The shout froze the three fighters in their various positions for a moment, then they all collapsed on top of each other on the floor.

Seated high atop a bunk, overlooking everything, Keinruf waved the tattered remains of a red scarf and blew a high, piercing note on a whistle somebeast had carved for him.

Seth struggled out from beneath the ferret and fox, and looked up into the inquisitive gaze of Captain Jericho.

The weasel eyed him coldly. "Would you like to tell me what happened?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"They," Seth panted, gesturing at the other two, "maliciously attacked me! I had nothing to do with the instigation of this!"

Jericho blinked and then turned to the rest of the Southern soldiers gathered in the room.

"Would anybeast _else_ like to tell me what happened?"

"We fell down?" the ferret suggested.

Jericho threw his arms wide. "Anybeast at all?"

A rat sitting on the bunk below Keinruf snorted.

"The Prince there actually ain't exaggerating too much," he said. "Those two made a bet that they could thrash the one who helped bring down the palace at Amarone, and they ain't doing too bad."

The weasel captain nodded his thanks. "Thank you Private Stanley, that'll be all. Lieutenant Devonshire, may I inquire as to why you're down here instead of in your cabin?"

Seth glared at Keinruf. "I'm here because that fiend thought it'd be fun to come down and play."

Jericho glanced at Keinruf who blinked at him innocently. "Well Lieutenant, you seem to have found him, so may I suggest you take him and return above deck?"

Muttering, Seth picked himself up and hauled Keinruf off the bunk before retreating with bad grace.

The weasel captain glared at the remaining soldiers, and then winked at the ferret who winked back.

"So, who won?" asked Jericho.

The ferret grinned at him. "We did. Pay up!"

***

Seth stood at the top of the gangplank and looked down at the bustle of the port. Sailors carrying heavy loads of equipment scurried about while street vendors tried to out-yell each other in the praise of their various wares. Scattered here and there were bright flashes of color as females moved along the walk.

Beside him, Keinruf held on tightly to his paw, the kit's other paw stuck in his mouth, staring with wide eyes at the hustle and bustle.

Seth looked down at his son and then threw his arm wide.

"Well, what do you think?"

Keinruf slowly looked up at him and took his paw out of his mouth.

"Wenches!"

Seth's jaw dropped. "What?" he managed.

Keinruf pointed at a handful of brightly dressed females standing at the end of the gangplank. One of them waved at him and blew a kiss.

"Wenches!"

"Keinruf," Seth said, "don't ever let my mother hear you say that."

Keinruf stuck his paw back in his mouth and trailed behind Seth, struggling to keep up as they moved down onto the street.

"So yer back, Devonshire? Looks like they mussed up yer pretty face a wee bit."

Seth found himself snout-to-snout with a pretty weaselmaid, her plunging neckline a dangerous declaration to any sailor worth his salt.

"Hello, Rissa, business going well?"

"I'm Vicky. _She's_ Rissa."

The weasel pointed to a marten lass who winked at him and swished her tail.

"Who's the kit?"

He turned back to Vicky who was looking at Keinruf.

"Em," he said. "He's mine."

"'S that so." She looked back up at him. "Sadie know?"

"I don't know, I haven't told her yet."

Vicky laughed and stepped out of his way. "Well then, me Lord, I suggest you go tell her. If I'm not mistaken, she's got a treat for you too."

Seth sighed and ran a paw through his headfur. "Thanks, Vicky, you're a real pal."

She smiled. "Anything to help an old customer. Now get out of here."

"Sadie still lives over on Glass Street, right?"

The weasel shrugged. "Best go see for yourself."

Seth rolled his eyes and moved past the lasses who were already turning their attention on the rest of the soldiers disembarking from the ship.

Seth breathed in deeply. He was home.

He turned down Court Street and almost got run over by a badger pulling a wagon piled high with turnips. Making rude gestures and shouting obscenities at the retreating cart, he pulled Keinruf to a slightly safer side of the street and continued on his way.

The houses were shabbier here, some little more than shacks. Ragged kits ran about with sticks, pretending to be soldiers, fighting their little battles around rickety fence lines and using mud as missiles. One such hit the back of Seth's head. He whirled. A young wildcat gave him a grin of apology.

"Sorry, guv! Best get out of Macy's firing line. She tends to get carried away."

Seth opened his mouth to say something about the penalty for striking a lord, and then caught sight of his reflection in a window.

While Wazzock had been very kind in smuggling them out of the country, with food and drink enough for a dozen ships, the rat hadn't really given much thought to clothes. Seth found he looked rather worse than the few adults out on the streets this morning. Most of them at least had patches over their torn shirts and trousers.

With a mere nod at the wildcat, he dragged Keinruf away from a ferret lad who was trying to steal his scarf, and continued down the road.

"Wenches," said Keinruf.

Seth cuffed him. "I told you not to say that."

The little marten snapped at him. "No muvver."

A familiar looking yard appeared at the end of the street, and something in Seth's chest moved a little faster than usual.

"Pray to whatever fate you like best that you're wrong about that." He muttered to Keinruf and quickened his pace.

The yard in question was full of glass bottles half-buried in the ground. Reds, greens, blues, and browns. Sadie had always wanted flowers, he remembered. But flowers were expensive to buy, and if you could get them to grow in the grime of Glass Street's shabby yards, then somebeast was most likely going to mistake them for salad and eat them before they had a chance to bloom properly. Seth stared at the glass bottles while Keinruf peered around curiously. Then, Seth looked up at the little house.

Another window had been broken since he'd last been here, and it looked like Todd had stuffed it with old rags to keep the chill of winter at bay. The door still hung crookedly in its frame – there was a hinge loose. Seth had told Todd to fix it.

Seth swallowed. He was stalling. He knew he was stalling.

Taking a deep breath, he took a step towards the door, then another, and another. And… he was standing in front of it.

"Wenches."

"Shut up."

Seth reached out to push the door open, then paused. No, he couldn't do that. Slowly, he reached up and knocked.

For a long moment there was silence, and then something inside let out a shrill cry and began screaming. Through the thin walls he heard pawsteps, a curse, then:

"Todd, I told you not to pick her up! No! Put her down! That's right, go see who's at the door."

Seth's pulse quickened still more. He knew that voice.

Now there were pawsteps coming towards him. There was a heavy scraping sound as Todd dragged the door open. Seth stared at him. He looked exactly like he had the last time Seth'd been here – torn shirt, neatly patched, too-big trousers tied up at his waist, his headfur neatly combed to hide the long scar on his forehead.

"Is Sadie here?"

Todd blinked at him curiously.

"Who's you are?" he asked.

Seth swallowed. "Er… I'm an old friend… please is Sadie here?"

"Who is it Todd?" a voice called from another room. "Tell them to go away. I have no time today for sewing!"

Todd turned and yelled back. "I dunno. He's a tramp, I think. All beat up! 'S got mud on hisself."

There was the sound of muttering and then… then…

She was there. But she wasn't…

Seth stared at her.

"Sadie?"

She shooed Todd back inside and stood in the doorway, holding a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms.

"Yes? Who're you?"

Seth felt like he'd been slapped.

"I'm… I'm…" He stopped. "I missed you."

She blinked at him. He stood still while she stared at his face, her eyes taking in every detail: jagged scars, bruises, torn ear, ragged clothes, torn shirt, noble's medallion still hanging around his neck.

"Seth?"

He nodded.

He wasn't ever exactly sure what happened next, only that he could feel Sadie's arms around him, could feel her pressed up against him, her warm breath hot on his neck, and then her lips when he kissed her in a way he'd never done before.

Then, the bundle she'd been holding that had gotten trapped between them, squeaked.

Seth jerked back. "What is that?"

Sadie was crying, and laughing, and trying to hold onto him and the bundle, all at the same time.

"It's yours," she managed after a moment.

Seth blinked.

"What is?"

Sadie pushed the bundle into his arms and pulled back a fold of cloth. A marten baby blinked sleepy eyes at him, and yawned.

Seth almost dropped it.

"Sit down," Sadie said, rescuing the kit. "Here, come inside, come in… Who's he?"

Seth looked up to see her pointing at Keinruf who was standing forlornly on the bottom step and staring up at her.

"Em," said Seth, "Em…. Em… Sadie?"

Sadie turned to look at him.

"Seth, who is he?"

Seth swallowed. "He's mine too," he muttered.

There was a long silence.

"What's his name?"

"Keinruf."

Seth risked a glance at her. She had a pensive look on her face.

"How old is he?"

"Two. Three in a few months I think."

"Where's his mother?"

Seth took a deep breath. "She's dead."

"Wenches?" said Keinruf.

"Cute little bugger."

"Only sometimes," Seth growled.

"I think… I think you'd both better come inside," Sadie said finally. "And I want you to tell me everything. You hungry, Keinruf?"

The kit nodded.

"Todd," Sadie called, as she led the way in, "Put last night's porridge on the fire and go down to the bakers and pick up a loaf of bread."

Seth followed her, remembering previous visits to the house. There was a new smell to it now, and it was dirtier than he remembered. She took him to the tiny kitchen and set the bundle down in a rough cradle…. next to two other bundles.

Seth licked his lips. "They aren't…"

Sadie nodded. "They are."

"Is that all?"

"As far as I know."

Seth sank down on a bench next to the table, and stared at them. Keinruf took a closer look, standing on tip paw, and peering over the side.

"What are they?" Seth asked.

"Two boys and a girl," Sadie said. "None of them have names yet. I was waiting for you."

Seth swallowed. "You got my letters?"

Sadie nodded to a box where Seth could see familiar-looking papers peeking out over the rim.

"I got them. Most of them were blacked out, except for the last few ones."

Seth was silent a moment as Todd clomped in, carrying a loaf of bread. He set it on the table, and then went to join Keinruf staring at the kits.

"Todd still have that job I got him?"

Sadie gave her brother a thoughtful look and shook her head. "No, they fired him after you left. He built that cradle. He's very proud of it."

"It's hideous."

"He likes it."

"Why didn't you tell me you were having kits?"

Sadie glanced at Keinruf. "Why didn't you tell me you had one yourself?"

Seth sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Where would you like me to start?"

"At the beginning."

So he started at the beginning. He told her about the trip over to the Imperium. He told her about Rotclaw and getting transferred into Steep's regiment. About the attack on Bully Harbour where the rest of his squad had gotten burned to death or drowned in the icy waters, or cut down by Gloria Ruston's soldiers. He talked about the bird, Pip, who had papers saying that he wasn't allowed to be eaten. How Pip and Steep saved his life.

He told her about getting captured... and rescued. About slowly unraveling the secret of the war, how it was only a trick for power. He talked about the time Keinruf was delivered to him in the middle of the night, and how Steep and Pip and he had gone out and gotten drunk so that he wouldn't have to remember Alissa. He told her about Alissa and why she had died.

The march to Amarone, where he had rescued Steep and gotten his ribs broken. The arrow Pip ripped out of his ear. The attack on the palace where Keinruf almost gave them away and had to be bribed with chestnuts he never got. The death of the leading general of the Southern Army. Spending the night in the cellar where he told Alissa's story to Steep when he got so drunk he didn't know who she was. Discovering the weapon that the entire war had been about. Steep's death. Blowing up the palace while his own army was still trapped inside of it.

He talked about the march back to Bully Harbour, and how Pip had died. The card game he'd played for his life... and lost. And finally, he told her about the rescue mission Captain Pike had launched, and the trip back home.

Through it all, she was silent, her pretty head resting on thin paws. Seth studied her face while he talked. She was thinner, with dark circles under her eyes. Her dress was faded and the pretty ribbons she had used to decorate it with were gone.

When he had finished, she was silent awhile still, and then she licked her lips.

"So, the war was just a pretense? And thousands of beasts died for a cause that did not exist?"

Seth said nothing.

"Did you love Steep?"

Seth looked at his paws. "Yes," he said finally.

"Good."

"Not like I love you!"

She laughed. "I didn't think so. Do you love me, Seth?"

"Yes."

"I love you, too."

* * *

William Devonshire was reading in his study when the door opened. He didn't bother putting his book down.

"So, you're still alive, then."

Seth stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

"It would appear so."

William put down his book.

"You're filthy."

"That's what mother said."

"Oh? Did she also tell you that the entire mission of the Southern Army failed largely with the help of your personal involvement?"

Seth let his eyes roam the bookshelves. "She failed to mention that, I'm afraid."

William snapped his book shut.

"So, that's it, then? You fail your country, and have no remorse other then, 'she failed to mention that'."

Seth reached down, pulled the medallion off of his neck, and tossed it onto his father's desk.

"What's that for?"

"I suggest you open it," Seth said, going to the window and staring out.

William picked it up and unclasped the hook holding it shut on the side. The front opened up to reveal the contents.

"Dust," he said dryly. "You brought me dust."

"It isn't dust." Seth said, still staring out the window. "It's the weapon of the Imperium. I thought it was rather pointless for Captain Steep to die for nothing."

For a long moment, there was silence.

"Who else knows about this?" William asked.

Seth shrugged and inspected his claws. "No one. If I were you, I'd destroy it."

William poured the powder into an envelope and sealed it. "I can't do that. My obligations are clear."

Seth nodded. "I'm getting married."

"To whom?"

"Sadie."

William studied his son. "I thought your time in that barbaric northern country would have cleared your head."

"It did," Seth said. "The wedding is on Sunday."

"Bit abrupt."

"I don't want a big fuss."

"Your mother will be appalled."

"Isn't she always."

"How many kits does she have?"

"Three."

"And Alissa's?"

"How do you know about Keinruf?"

William picked up a letter and waved it at Seth.

"Fredrick Wright sent word to me. He thought there were a few details I might be interested in. You've certainly been around a bit."

Seth shrugged. "I'm bringing Sadie here."

"I can't say I'm surprised."

"Mother will object."

"I think your mother and I can make arrangements for new housing. This powder won't exactly put us out of favor with the Emperor."

"You're pleased then?"

William stood up and moved to stand next to his son, both of them staring out the window to the city below them.

"She will never fit in with our circles, Seth, and you have four bastard kits that will never be _quite_ accepted no matter where they go. Your mother is going to raise the dead with her fits, but she'll defend you to all those starched females she calls her friends. I'm going to raise your allowance to suit your family, but you're going to find that your gaming tables and late night cabarets are a thing of the past. Are _you_ pleased?"

Seth turned to look at his father.

"At least I won't be bored."

William gave his son the medallion and watched as he slipped it back over his head.

"No, Seth," he said, with just a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. "You will never be bored."


End file.
